Fifty Shades of AU
by DolbyDigital
Summary: [29] Percy/Oliver (mostly platonic) [Prison!AU] He had thought he'd managed to escape the expectations of his family, to escape this inevitable outcome, but apparently not. [30] Cedric&Myrtle [Haunted House!AU] "I have to make sure: you are aware of the … incidents?" she asks carefully. "You mean the deaths?" Cedric blurts out. "The murders and suicides and accidents?"
1. The Lies We Tell Ourselves - MuggleAU

_[Summary] - Narcissa/Lucius [Muggle!AU] Over a decade later, she can't remember much about that summer, but there was one thing that would always stay with her. His favourite colour was blue._

 **A/N** – This is for Rayne (Rayniekinnz); I'm really sorry it's late, and I apologise in advance for all the mistakes I'm sure I overlooked. Here is the (sort-of) Muggle AU you didn't particularly ask for.

 **Warnings** for mentions of abortion.

* * *

 _His favourite colour was blue_.

She didn't know when she'd found that out; she couldn't tell you why she'd bothered remembering it, either.

* * *

"Excuse me? You look a little lost," he said with an infuriating smirk, tone completely opposing his words.

"Well, I'm afraid you are mistaken," she snapped, hurrying away from the man – _Muggle_ – who thought himself good enough to approach her.

He easily sped up his pace to match hers.

"What could you possibly want in this direction?" he continued in the same haughty tone. "There's nothing out here but empty fields."

"That shows what you know," she retorted, only realising after the fact that she was only encouraging him.

"I grew up here," he said as if it were something to be _proud_ of. "There are only fields and an old run-down barn. What could _you_ ," he looked her up and down, "possibly want with either of those?" She gave a derisive snort; it never ceased to amaze her how _ignorant_ these people could be.

"Do not presume to know me, just because you are far too dim-witted to see what is right in front of you." Why did her parents decide _this_ was a good place to spend the summer?

* * *

"You again?" came a now familiarly annoying drawl; _unbelievable_. "What is your fascination with that field?"

"What is your fascination with _me_ ," she was quick to retort. He only smirked in response. He was _infuriating_. "If you have nothing to say-"

"Oh, but my dear," she gave him her best disgusted look at that; the one she'd learnt from her Aunt Walburga, "How could I possibly _not_ be fascinated with you?"

She scoffed at that; partly because she thought he was being sarcastic, partly because she thought he might be serious.

* * *

He was beneath her, she knew that, but still she found herself seeking him out.

"Don't you have anywhere better to be than this small town?" she asked him one morning, feeling a brief sense of satisfaction when she startled him, however momentarily.

"What makes you think I plan to stay here?" He didn't look at her as he spoke, but she knew she had his full attention.

"It seems to fit you," she replied blandly.

"A lot of very rich people simply whiling away the time? Getting richer and richer as they wait for death?" He finally looked at her, eyebrows slightly raised, expression somehow portraying bored disapproval. "No. I plan to make a name for myself."

"Then why are you still here?"

"My mother. She's sick." At her look of disbelief, he continued. "Family is important to me."

She hadn't been expecting that; this Muggle seemed a lot more interesting than she'd first thought possible.

The silence stretched on as she attempted to gather her thoughts.

"If you truly disliked me, you wouldn't keep seeking me out," he said, breaking her out of her quiet contemplation.

It was a while before she could form a whispered reply.

"I never said I disliked you."

* * *

"What is your name?" she enunciated each word clearly, trying to hide how embarrassed she was. They'd been meeting like this for over a month now, and not once had she bothered asking – _though,_ she reasoned, _neither had he_.

"Malfoy."

"Malfoy?"

"Lucius." She barely contained an eye roll – who introduced themselves like that? – though there was nothing she could do about the tightening of her expression. "And you?" he asked, seemingly uncaring of her answer.

"Narcissa Black."

"Like the flower?"

* * *

He tugged lightly at the ribbon in her hair.

"I like this colour," he murmured, almost to himself; if they hadn't been standing so close, she probably wouldn't have heard.

"It was my sister's."

"That doesn't change the colour," he replied blandly.

She reached up, touching the silky fabric in her hair. She hadn't thought much of the ribbon before; it was just something Andy had left behind – she wasn't even sure why she kept it. _It was convenient_ , she thought.

She was a little surprised Lucius had even noticed it.

* * *

"Where do you keep disappearing off to?" her sister asked one day in the middle of August. She was surprised it had taken Bella this long to bring it up.

"Nowhere," she tried, already knowing it wouldn't work.

"C'mon Cissy. It's okay." She didn't know how to take that. "You don't have to marry the bloke. Just get it out of your system."

"Get what out-"

"You know what! Passion; lust; _sex_!" Narcissa nodded along, not sure why her sister was condoning this. "So? Is he good?"

"Uh..." She found herself strangely unwilling to admit they hadn't even kissed.

"What? Your first time? _Really_?" Narcissa tried to keep her expression neutral. "Where's he from, anyway? Over the Channel? I haven't seen anyone I recognise from Hogwarts. Oh, Merlin, he's not a _Hufflepuff,_ is he?"

Oh. _Oh._ Of course. Her sister couldn't even _conceive_ the notion that she might be seeing a Muggle.

"No, Beauxbatons." She pushed down the guilt she felt for lying to her sister.

It was surprisingly easy.

* * *

She couldn't keep her sister's words from her head. Maybe she could just _use_ this Muggle. It wouldn't mean anything.

There were no _feelings_ involved.

She tried to ignore how close to a lie that felt.

* * *

She couldn't find the courage until the day before they were due to leave. She wasn't like Bella; she couldn't just take what she wanted with any means necessary.

So, she waited.

She waited until she could receive no negative repercussions from her actions, and _only then_ did she take what she wanted.

And that one night, it would have to be enough.

* * *

Returning home, she was fully prepared to forget about him completely. It had been nice, that was all – there was _nothing_ more to it.

He was a _Muggle_. He was so far beneath her that she shouldn't have bothered wasting her time on him in the first place, but still...

 _Still_...

* * *

She's found herself here most mornings for the past couple weeks, crouched over the toilet and throwing up the remnants of last night's dinner.

It was probably food poisoning; the House-elves should take more care when preparing meals.

It got harder to deny what was happening the longer it went on.

* * *

She wakes up one morning – maybe a month after it started – to find a small vial on her bedside table. She instantly recognised the contents; it was something every girl knew about, though few admitted to ever using.

It had to have been from Bellatrix. Her sister hadn't said anything about knowing – and there was no note with the bottle – but who else could it have been? No one else would have noticed; not yet.

She turned the vial over in her hand, keeping her finger over the stopper just in case.

She couldn't keep this... _thing_ growing inside her. This was the best course of action, really. What else could she do?

When she pulled out the cork the liquid fizzed slightly, an awful smell emitting from the vial, bringing with it another wave of nausea.

 _It was for the best_.

But, lifting the potion to her lips, she found she couldn't bring herself to take the last step.

* * *

She was seated in the front row, her sister standing before all of their friends and family. It was odd seeing Bellatrix shrouded in white; the colour just did not suit her, nor did the demure smile.

Appearances were everything; it didn't matter what happened behind closed doors as long as no one outside of the family ever found out. She was proof of that.

She could practically feel the disapproving looks Bella was sending her way whenever no one was looking. They only served to further enhance the worry that was already consuming her.

 _Soon, she wouldn't be able to hide it._

* * *

"Narcissa?" her mother's tone was deceptively quiet, but Narcissa could feel the anger lurking beneath the single word.

"Yes, Mother?" She tried for innocent.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?"

"No, of course-"

"How long were you planning on keeping this from me?"

"I wasn't-"

"I am your mother! How could I _not_ notice?"

"Well, I-"

"You will go to Knockturn Alley and get the potion to-" Narcissa shook her head slowly, eyes fixed to the floor. "How long?" She didn't answer. " _How long?"_ Her mother repeated. Narcissa hesitated a few beats more before mouthing her answer.

 _Five months._

* * *

The arrangements were made without her knowledge; she was only told the day before she was shipped off to France that she would be staying with a distant relative of her mother's. A half-blind old woman who was so _besotted_ with her late husband it was ridiculous.

It could have been worse, she supposed. She'd heard tales, back in Hogwarts, of girls who had been forced to take the potion even after it was no longer safe. Her mother had still wanted grandchildren, though; just in the proper fashion.

She noticed there was no mention of what would become of the child she was carrying.

Unwillingly, she found herself almost _caring_ for the little Half-blood.

Her mother's final words still rang through her head, reminding her of why that was a terrible idea.

 _"_ _I expect, when you return, that this_ little problem _will have resolved itself."_

* * *

She could feel the child moving inside her, its kicks causing more pain than she'd been lead to believe. She'd been told it was a beautiful thing to have a child, but this was anything but. It was painful and embarrassing and so very _inconvenient_.

Still, she found herself wanting what was best for this child. For the child that she would not keep; that she _couldn't_ keep.

Andy had managed to renounce their family; their name; everything they had been raised to believe in. Narcissa couldn't do that. She couldn't ignore the fact that this child was half Muggle; that it shouldn't exist.

She pushed down all feelings of _want_.

It wouldn't work.

* * *

She went back one last time, infant held close to her chest, feet following the familiar path to the doorway she remembered as being his.

She wasn't like either of her sisters; she couldn't put her own desires above those of her family, and this child was not her family – _he wasn't_.

Bending down, she carefully placed the child on the doorstep, arranging the blankets around him to ensure he stayed warm. She tucked a sealed envelope underneath him, the letter inside only containing the barest of details.

Gently tracing her finger over one rounded cheek, she whispered a final goodbye to the child, stepping back as his eyes fluttered open.

The child whimpered softly, his cries getting louder when she continued to walk away.

She didn't look back.

* * *

Over a decade later, she can't remember much about that summer; she can barely remember what he looked like – she has no idea what the child might look like now – but there was one thing that had stuck with her, for some inexplicable reason.

 _His favourite colour was blue_.


	2. Toujours Pur - SpaceAU

_[Summary] - Bellatrix/Voldemort [Space!AU] He was the first one to really see her – to understand her. Everyone else, they called her and her kind a planet. And she knows that he will come back for her._

 **A/N** – This is written for Round 11 of QL with the lyric prompt 'When sooner or later it's over' – Iris by The GooGoo Dolls; I didn't include it in the narrative, but it was the inspiration for this. I also had the optional prompts:

[picture]

[word] determined

This is a Space!AU with the implied one-sided pairing of Bellatrix/Voldemort.

I'm not sure how much sense this makes; I came up with a lot of backstory for this universe, and used very little of it here. I probably shouldn't try writing something so complicated when I'm so tired.

* * *

He was the first one to really see her – to _understand_ her. Everyone else, they called her and her kind a planet. A planet made of living metal the kinds of which they had never seen before.

They called them _Toujours Pur_ and named it their ever expanding home. But he was different.

He heard her call one night and he _listened_. He let her into his mind – reluctantly, at first – and she showed him her world.

She showed him the consciousness inside the twisting metal tubes that grew like plants; how they were not one giant planet, but several hundreds of creatures all connected, twined together, using each other to sustain life.

She took him with her, helping his mind to navigate the twisting currents; showing him the different life forces that his kind had dubbed a planet, each clearly unique and yet without any verbal distinction.

They were creatures of concepts, and this was how they had lived for millennia.

* * *

"You are concepts?" He always insisted on speaking aloud, even when their minds were connected; even though he knew she couldn't.

 _Yes._

"Then why are you female?"

 _I am not. We have no need of gender._

"And yet you always refer to yourself with female pronouns."

 _That is how you have always referred to me. I had thought it would make you more comfortable; a link from my species to yours. Would you prefer I stopped?_ Confusion was not something she had experienced before; her kind had no reason for it.

"Do as you please."

* * *

"Are you bound here?"

 _What?_

"Are you bound here? To the other life forces? Or can you leave?"

 _It has never been attempted before_.

"That's not what I asked."

 _Why would I need to do such a thing?_

"Because you are useless to me here."

 _I will try_.

* * *

She pulled; tearing, ripping, shredding. The pain was excruciating, for her and all of her kind. It burned through their link like fire and, when she was finally free, it left a gaping wound in their side.

Metal tendrils reached out towards her, trying to latch on; thoughts extending the vines further in an attempt to repair them. To bring her back.

Her mind was lost, trying to expand to fill the void that had been left behind, but she clung to the shattered shards seeking some way to ground herself without reconnecting to them.

And then she found him.

* * *

Being linked with a human was... _different._ She found herself receiving a lot of emotional backlash; he couldn't control his thoughts as easily as she was used to and he did not appreciate her constant presence in his mind.

But he needed her, so he allowed it.

* * *

She reformed herself into something that could keep him alive; reconnecting severed nerve endings, expanding, stretching her conscious up and around. She had a floor now, and ceilings, made of metal that pulsed with constant movement.

She could see herself in his mind; blackened where she had originally been attached to her kind, stretched so thin in places that the light of her conscious could be seen through the blue-silver of her metal casing, but it had worked.

They were both still alive.

* * *

They travel that way for years, just them, before he decides that things must change. She argues fiercely, but in the end he gets his way, as they both knew he would.

* * *

They build up their forces over the years, and she must continuously expand herself to accommodate them; most of her metal is transparent now, already thin to begin with, and she's not sure how much more of this she can take, but she will always do as he asks.

* * *

They call themselves her crew, and she their ship. He is the only one that treats her as she is; as something alive.

He uses her in the same way he uses everyone else, but she hopes that she is special to him like he is special to her.

* * *

They cross paths with a ship unlike any they've ever seen before. It's badly formed, and a lot smaller than the amount of life forces detected upon it would suggest. It seems to be mostly made out of scrap metal, but underneath the rust and grime there is the blue-silver of her kind.

She hates this ship that's been patched together so badly it's a mockery of what it must once have been.

She hates it, because now there is no need for her. He can find another of her kind willing to shun all they have known; another who is less damaged from the years of space travel and who could carry the numbers that he had originally envisioned.

* * *

The first ship had passed them by without initiating any form of contact, and he had not wanted to destroy something so _pure_. She could feel her conscious attempting to withdraw into itself at the very thought.

But this next ship, even more damaged than the first but a lot larger, had stopped right in front of them and the ship called out to her. She recognised the strand of consciousness reaching out towards her, but only barely; it had changed to such a _human_ way of thinking, and she knew they had to destroy this _abomination_.

But he stopped her.

* * *

She separated a small part of herself off, creating something so disfigured that it was a miracle it managed to hold itself together. The pain of creating it was like ripping herself from her home once again, but she had to trust that he knew what he was doing.

She allowed his consciousness to slip into it, having to help his mind traverse the paths between herself and this _thing_ she had created.

The pain worsened as she watched him leave in it, her mind barely holding itself together without him there to ground her.

* * *

She is left to rot on the prison planet Azkaban, unable to keep herself up amongst the stars. Most of her crew is killed in the landing, the rest a slowly picked off by the native species of the planet leaving useless shells of themselves behind; empty vessels that would be better off dead.

She cannot bring herself to care for them.

* * *

It is several years before she realises that the other ship is there with her. She had aimed everything she had at it, but it's patched together surface must have been stronger than it appeared.

She cannot feel sympathy for this creature – she cannot even feel sorry for herself – because they are no worse off than they were before he came.

And she knows that he will come back for her.


	3. Clipped Wings - FairyAU

_[Summary] – Luna/Blaise [Fairy!AU] While he is like a butterfly, her wings are those of a moth, hanging in tatters down her back._

 **A/N –** This happened when I was watching Ripper Street; it's based off Alice's story. I wrote this for Lystra (Books to Ashes). I'm really sorry about the bad characterisations – I don't write either of them particularly often, and I didn't realise how hard it would be until I'd started, especially as they're both children (pre-Hogwarts ages). It was supposed to be a little confusing – this only shows what Luna knows, and that's not a lot (she's made up things to cover what she doesn't understand, and here she ignores anything she can't explain) but I'm not sure how well that comes across. It probably goes a little too far.

Also, this covers several years - that's not really mentioned because Luna doesn't really notice time passing.

* * *

"Luna? Luna, can you hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where you are? How you got here?"

* * *

 _The fairy helped her. He showed her the way. He took her hand and led her away from the smoke; away from the fire; away from the Witch Queen burning inside._

 _"_ _She was evil," he said, pulling her with him. "She clipped your wings." His own wings fluttered beautifully behind him, delicate and soft, shining in the moonlight._

 _"_ _My wings?" she asked, following him; allowing herself to be led._

 _"_ _Yes, they've taken them from you; stolen the very thing that makes you special. Without them you're ordinary," he said, and she hated them for that; for making her ordinary. "But it's okay," he continued, bringing her hope once more. "We can help you. We can make you whole again; clean again. And they will be punished."_

* * *

"Luna? Are you listening? I need you to answer."

"He took me away."

"Who took you away, Luna?"

"He took me somewhere better; somewhere safe. Somewhere I could regain my wings."

"Luna? Who took you?"

* * *

 _He took her to a magical place; real magic, not like the bubbling cauldrons of the Witch Queen or the spinning whirring metal of the man. Away from the castle where she was kept locked away; this was a field of beautiful flowers of every colour, stretching on as far as the eye could see. Trees growing tall, unhindered; a beautiful river, the water glittery by the sun._

 _"_ _You're safe here," he told her. "Safe from the Witch Queen, and all those how wish to harm you."_

 _"_ _And the man?" she asked._

 _"_ _Yes, safe from the Witch King, too," he said, releasing her hand. "Here you will always be safe."_

 _She reached for him but he moved away, arms spread and wings catching the breeze._

 _He stopped when she did not follow, hovering just out of her reach._

 _"_ _But maybe it will take time," he murmured, lowering himself, crouching to soften his landing. "You will stay with me." His demeanour changed once more, brightening._

 _"_ _With you?" She wanted to reach out for him, but she did not want to mar him with her touch._

 _"_ _Yes." He smiled at her. "I am Blaise."_

 _"_ _I do not know who I am," she said, only now realising that this were true._

 _"_ _You are Luna," he replied, perplexed, a small frown marring his features. She did not like it there; it did not belong on his face. "They have done more harm to you than I thought, for you to forget something so important."_

 _"_ _My name?"_

 _"_ _Your identity." He turned, walking ahead of her, wings fluttering with each step. She followed, listening to him hum softly to himself, entranced by the sound._

* * *

"Luna? _Who took you?"_

"The fairy. He took me away. Where I would be safe from the Witch King and the Witch Queen."

"Luna-"

"Somewhere I would be safe."

* * *

 _They reached the forest of trees, so tall to her, but he spread his wings and flew to the highest branches with ease. He disappears for a moment, and she would worry if she did not know him so well. He will always come back for her._

 _There is an inhuman screeching from where she had last seen him; a sound that does not belong in this magical place, and she can almost feel the worry bubbling in her chest like the liquid in the Witch Queen's cauldron, but he is there again._

 _"_ _Mamma says we must build you somewhere to live." His smile is reassuring, though she's already forgotten why she might need it. There is nothing to worry about here; nothing to fear._

 _She is safe._

* * *

"You are safe here, Luna. You're safe."

"No. I was safe with them. Now I am at the mercy of the Witch King, for the Witch Queen is surely dead."

"Luna, you can't- Luna..."

* * *

 _She does not know days, the sun is always shining here, but sometimes he must leave her; he always returns. They spend much time together – in the home he had built her; in the clearing; by the river._

 _"_ _Where are the other fairies?" she asks one visit. "When can I see them?"_

 _"_ _They are waiting for your wings to grow back. They will welcome you then." He presses his fingertips lightly into her shoulder blades, sighing softly and allowing his hand to gently trace the curve of her spine as he drops it to his side. "Not yet. Soon maybe."_

 _"_ _Yes," she whispers. She can see his disappointment, though he hides it so well, and she knows she is the cause. She will have to do better; for him. "Soon."_

* * *

"What do you remember? Of the King and Queen."

"The Witch King and the Witch Queen."

"Yes, what do you remember of them?"

* * *

 _He grows weary of checking, she can tell this. He shouldn't be weary or disappointed or any of the other myriad of negative emotions she sees flit across his face from time to time. Always when he thinks she isn't looking. But she sees._

 _"_ _Maybe," she suggests, when his hidden disappointment becomes too much for her, "we could use magic. Maybe magic will help my wings grow back."_

 _He looks up at her, surprise registering on his features._

 _"_ _Yes," he smiles as he speaks; that smile hasn't properly surfaced in a while, and she is glad. Glad that she can bring it back after so long._

 _It takes a while, but he uses his magic – pure and warm and safe; not the magic of the Witch Queen, for this is healing magic – to help her wings to grow back._

 _But while he is like a butterfly, her wings are those of a moth, hanging in tatters down her back._

 _He sees how tainted she is, and this time he does not attempt to conceal his disappointment._

* * *

"Luna? Please tell me. You must tell me what you remember."

"A man – the Witch King – on fire – he screams my name, but... He is crying. He is crying, and I am falling. Falling. The Witch King reaches for me, but now the fairies have me."

* * *

 _"_ _I love you," she whispers, running her fingers through his hair. He stiffens immediately, and there should be no place for the expression on his face here. He should never look so horrified; so betrayed; so disgusted._

 _"_ _You cannot love!" he yells, pushing her away. The noise is frightening, there is never anything loud here, but his actions dwarf that feeling ten-fold. "You cannot love!" he shrieks again, though it's starting to sound a little less like words. She remembers that sound, distantly, but before she can focus on the memory it is gone._

 _His teeth begin to lengthen into points, his eyes turning black; his skin cracks and takes on an appearance more like scales; his nails lengthen into talons and she thinks he will attack – she thinks he will hurt her – and he does, in his way._

 _He turns and leaves her there, flies away all the while making that horrible shrieking sound that is almost words. Others join in, and it hurts her ears. It hurts so much, but not as much as the pain filling her chest._

 _Her screams join the cries_

 _She screams and screams until the blackness swallows her._

* * *

"And then what, Luna?"

"The fairy has me, and he leads me away, and then..."

* * *

 _It is a long while before she awakes, and she thinks that it must have been some horrible dream, but... but she hasn't dreamed since she got here._

 _She looks around the home that he had built her, sees the ruined walls and the destroyed furniture, and she cannot hide from the truth any longer._

 _Something has happened here; something horrible, and she knows that she was the cause of it._

 _She steps out into the clearing, the same clearing that he had first shown her, but it is dark now. It is finally night, and that is wrong. There is should be no darkness in this place, and she doesn't like it; she hates the moonless starless sky for it is nothing. It is not beautiful like this place once was, and she thinks that she brought it with her. For the Witch King must have found her._

 _There are shadows moving around the edges of the clearing, the vague flickering of lights accompanying them. She wants to move closer to the brightness, but she knows that he is waiting for her there._

 _But still, they come to her, illuminating the clearing in all its horrific detail, and she sees them; sees the being that she had so wanted to meet. She sees the dead fairies scattered around the clearing, their wings broken. Clipped._


	4. Red Strings of Fate - SoulmateAU

_[summary] – Sirius/OC (sort of; it's mostly just Sirius) [Soulmate!AU] He couldn't remember when he'd first noticed the thin red thread tied around his little finger, it might have always been there, though he couldn't be sure._

 **A/N –** This is written for Darkness' Embrace. I'm not really sure which Soulmate Theory you wanted, but I ended up writing about the red string of fate. I've never written a Soulmate!AU, and I've only read a couple, and I had absolutely no idea where I was going with this until I sort-of got there. Also, I didn't pair Sirius with anyone specific as you had him listed on his own; I hope that's okay.

A lot of time progresses between the beginning and end of this, so Sirius' views on certain things do change. But I'm very tired, so if I missed some glaringly obvious mistakes please let me know. I'm sure there's loads of them...

* * *

"Mama?" He looked up at his mother, seeing a brief flicker of annoyance cross her face as she turned her attention away from the book she was reading.

"What?" she asked, tone harsh. He hesitated briefly before responding.

"What's this?" He held up the little finger on his right hand for her inspection.

"There's nothing there," she snapped, only giving his finger a cursory glance.

He looked down at the thread tied neatly around his finger, followed its path across the room with his eyes and looked to where it somehow managed to go _through_ the door. He then turned his attention to his mother's thread, more faded in colour than his own and tangled. It, too, led out of the house.

"The string," he tried again.

"I don't have time for your games," she said, and picked up her book, effectively ending the brief conversation.

* * *

His aunt had caught him playing with the string, one day; tugging on it, testing to see if it would break. Every knot he tied simply slipped out, and he couldn't fathom how his mother's had become so tangled. No knife could break the string, either; it wasn't that the thread was strong enough to withstand steel, but that it went through the metal. He didn't understand. He could touch it, so why would nothing else affect it?

"You shouldn't play with fate," his aunt said, startling him.

"I wasn't doing anything," was his immediate, defensive, reply. She couldn't know about the strings; no one else could see them.

"I think you know exactly what you were doing." She sat next to him at the otherwise empty table, taking a sip from the glass of water she'd brought over.

"Can you see them, too?" he whispered, almost hoping that she didn't hear.

"Yes," she replied simply, seemingly not willing to give any further information. Or, perhaps, she was just waiting for him to ask.

"What are they?" he asked, still quietly but with more confidence than before.

"They are the red strings of fate," she said, as if it were something special. He looked down at the red string tied around his little finger; the name was somewhat anticlimactic, in his opinion.

"What's it for?" He hoped it would be something good.

"The other end of the thread is tied around your soulmate's little finger." She continued to elaborate at his blank expression. "The person you are destined to be with."

"To do what?" It didn't sound particularly interesting, and his aunt was already starting to look irritated at his lack of understanding.

"To marry, have children. To spend the rest of your life with," she said.

"Mother's doesn't connect with Father's." And he knew they would be spending the rest of their lives together.

"Yes, well it's not a proper marriage then, is it?" his aunt snapped.

"But if you can't see then, then how will you know?"

"You'll just know." She had clearly reached the end of her patience; it was a look he was more than familiar with on his mother.

"How?" He'd lost interest in the conversation some time ago, but he continued to question her, regardless.

"You just do. It's a feeling."

"What kind of feeling?"

"A _feeling_. But not everyone waits until they find the right person. That's what happened with your parents, and you see how that turned out."

"They got me," he said.

"Yes." Perhaps he'd taken this game a little too far.

* * *

He'd touched Peter's string once, back in First Year. It had been cutting through his bed on its way out of the dorms. The other half was connected to a quiet Ravenclaw girl – he couldn't remember her name, but he'd seen her around the castle a few times and her presence never ceased to make Peter blush.

He supposed he could have told them, helped them in some way, but he'd tried it once before – with Bellatrix and that Lestrange bastard – and it hadn't worked out well at all.

But lying there, with Peter's string barely an inch from his face, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he were to touch it. Would he be able to move it in the same way as his own? Would the thread bend at the press of his fingers, before returning to its original track?

He reached out a hand, fingers barely touching the string, when it started to blacken slightly under his touch. Peter let out a pained shriek, waking up instantly; Sirius could see him through the gap in the curtains, sweating and breathing heavily, looking around for the source of pain. He looked guiltily at the still darkened thread before feigning sleep.

He'd watched the string carefully for the rest of the night, as it slowly changed back to its original colour. Peter didn't seem to be affected at all, beyond the initial pain it had caused, so he tried not to let it bother him. And if there were a few extra tangles in Peter's string, he pretended not to notice.

* * *

Sometimes he wondered who his string was connected to. Once, he'd tried to follow it. He'd walked for hours through streets he knew, but mostly those he didn't, and had wound up hopelessly lost with the string no shorter than when he'd left Grimmauld Place.

He didn't understand. There weren't many knots in it, and it wasn't as hopelessly tangled as his mother's, so where was his soulmate?

Other times, he tried to run in the opposite direction to see how far he could stretch it out before it snapped. It had to break at some point; everything had its limits. But no matter how far he tried to stretch it, it always remained intact; it never even frayed.

Most of the time, however, he ignored it. He had long since gotten used to seeing it tied around his little finger. He was used to seeing them wherever he went, twisting around each other and some more tangled than others, but each connecting two people.

* * *

He'd tried dating a couple times, even though he knew it could never work out. Their strings had been attached to someone else, but that wasn't really what bothered him. He knew that there was someone at the other end of his own string – someone who was supposed to be perfect for him – and no one he'd tried dating could match up to that promise. No one could come anywhere near this person who he had yet to meet.

* * *

He was the least surprised out of anyone when James and Lily had finally got together. But then, he could see the strings that connected their hands. He'd watched as, over the years, each knot and tangle had carefully worked itself out.

And, yes, maybe he could have done something more to help, but he'd known they would reach this point eventually. What was the rush?

* * *

He hadn't really noticed Remus' string until he'd taken his friends 'round to his cousin's house once. (When you saw so many criss-crossing red threads every hour of every day you learnt to focus elsewhere; it was probably some sort of coping mechanism he'd subconsciously created.) He'd watched as it shortened, and at first he'd thought it was connected to Dromeda or her husband, but then Dora had walked into the room, and...

He hadn't spoken to Remus for nearly a week after that incident, though it had only been an incident to Sirius. And Remus had barely noticed her.

He'd started speaking to Remus again once he started dating a Ravenclaw girl – Peter's girl, in fact – and he realised that maybe it didn't happen straight away. Like with James and Lily. Prongs had noticed her, but she'd practically hated him from almost the moment they'd met.

Maybe it took time and, maybe, when they were all older, he'd be okay with it.

* * *

Leaving Hogwarts had been both a blessing and a curse. The strings weren't so tightly packed as they had once been. He had thought that he'd managed to ignore them, but they were always there in the corner of his mind, and he hadn't realised just how _oppressive_ that had felt until it was gone – or, rather, reduced.

Out of Hogwarts, there seemed to be enough room for the threads to subtly cross his path. People weren't forced to share such tight quarters, and when it all became too much for him he could easily find his own space.

But Hogwarts had protected him from one thing. There were just so _many_ threads out there, each joining two people, and it just seemed so _impossible_ that even a fraction of these people would manage to reach the person on the other end. And it had become clear to him that even if they _did_ manage to beat the odds, they had no way of realising that they had just met the one they were destined for.

That girl hadn't even learnt Peter's name, after all, and they would probably never meet again.

But maybe _knowing_ was the hardest part. Knowing and watching as people walked away from that one person, time and time again.

* * *

He lay staring up at the dark shadows crossing the ceiling, the whisperings of a mad woman in the cell next to his the only sounds he could hear. He kept his eyes away from the other prisoners. He didn't particularly care who they were or what happened to them, but he didn't want to see what their strings had become.

He could feel them – the Dementors – tugging at his own twisting it, tangling it, and singing it, turning parts burnt and blackened, until it was something unrecognisable.

He wasn't sure how long he had been here. He got glimpses of the world outside sometimes – during a routine inspection where their bored chatter inadvertently hit upon something useful; the date on a newspaper, tucked under one of the ministry-worker's arm; the new prisoners, sometimes, would mutter things to themselves in an effort to remember. It never worked. And he didn't want to be witness to their threads snapping, destroying what little of their own future they had left as well as that of the unsuspecting person on the other end.

The threads, though – or, his at the very least – seemed a lot more resilient than they had first appeared. He had thought that the Dementors would have more power over them than the steel of the knife he had used so many years ago, but even their abilities to take a person's very soul didn't seem to affect the strings.

It was true that he'd never seen someone who's soul had been eaten, but his own string... Yes, it was blackened and frayed and tied with so many knots and tangles that he was sure that whoever had the misfortune of being on the other end could feel it, too. But when he reached out to touch it, it pulsed like blood – the original red of the thread shining through the charring from the Dementors – seemingly with two rhythms.

He had to be careful not to do this, however tempting it might seem, as the Dementors would be inexplicably drawn to the purity of that pulse, beating in time with his heartbeat and the heartbeat of another. They would reach for it, touch it with their darkness; at times, the pain was so great that he would wish they'd just get it over with. Just cut the thread and spare him from this agony.

There were times when he felt that it would snap just from this pain, shooting through him and causing every inch of his body to seize up and writhe in agony as his thread was manipulated by their unclean hands. _Desecrated_.

But still it never broke.


	5. Her Element - QuidditchAU

_[Summary] - Lucius/Narcissa [Quidditch!AU]_ _Today, Puddlemere face off the Wasps in what is bound to be yet another gripping match between the two Dorset teams. Puddlemere's the first on the pitch, led by their Captain, Damon Crane. Crane's got his work cut out for him in this match._

 **A/N -** This is for Rayne (Rayniekinnz); I hope you don't mind another fic from me (and same pairing, too). At least this time you actually asked for an AU :)

Also written for QL Round 13 where we got to write whatever the hell we wanted, and I had the optional prompts repeat and evasive. (I'd also like to formally apologise to any Wasps that stumble across this. You guys do not suck at all; this is not an accurate representation of your awesomeness.)

I don't really know what happened with this…

* * *

Lucius sighed, stretching his legs out under the dark mahogany desk in his office. He could feel a headache building beneath his temples, and he only just managed to stifle a yawn. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here; hours maybe? - he couldn't remember taking a lunch break - and his back was starting to hurt from being hunched over his desk for so long.

He turned on the old radio, sitting mostly forgotten behind stacks of unfiled paperwork, with a flick on his wand. It turned straight to the sports network, something he'd set it to do long ago. There wasn't anything else he was particularly interested in listening to.

He'd timed it right, and the presenter was just beginning to announce the teams playing.

 _"Today, Puddlemere face off the Wasps in what is bound to be yet another gripping match between the two Dorset teams. Puddlemere's the first on the pitch, led by their Captain, Damon Crane. Newly appointed, Crane's got his work cut out for him in this match; I hear Bagman's-"_

Lucius narrowed his eyes at the stack of paperwork still in front of him. He was supposed to be there, supporting her. He signed the next two sheets of parchment, skimming through the text rather than giving it his full attention as he knew he should.

 _"And this match is the first time we'll be seeing the Wasps' newest member, Emma Vanity-"_

The radio had his full attention once more at the mention of the familiar name.

 _"-going up against old school rival-"_

Lucius scoffed; he could only vaguely remember the girl, but she had been several years younger than them and she had definitely been in Slytherin.

 _"-Narcissa Malfoy - here she comes now! with fellow chaser, Katrina Waters. These lovely ladies make for a formidable pair and, along with Crane, they're practically unstoppable once they've got the Quaffle!_

 _And Braden Ackerman and Caiden Marston! Ackerman's brilliant with a bat, but we haven't seen Marston play since the-"_ the reporter coughed lightly before continuing _"- incident two seasons ago. Let's hope he hasn't lost his touch! And keeper, Roger Caldwe-"_

The crowds cheering suddenly increased in volume, drowning out anything the man might have said, the noise crackling from the old speakers.

 _"Shelley Rose! Puddlemere's seeker! Everyone's favourite player-"_ Lucius rolled his eyes at that _"-She was the favourite for Captain when Saunders retired, but-"_

Lucius, tired of the commentary now that he'd heard his wife's name, turned off the small radio with a flick of his wand. There was still plenty on time until the match actually began, and the man's voice - he'd forgotten his name, no matter how many times Narcissa tried to install in him a knowledge of all the 'great' retired players - was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

With one last look at his paperwork, he decided that he could always delegate it to someone else if he was still working on it tomorrow noon.

He left his tiny office - barely more than a cupboard, but better than the cubicle he'd been forced to use before his promotion - and made his way out of the building, only stopped by two brave souls who either didn't notice know any better or were incredibly stupid.

It took him longer than he would have liked to Apparate to the pitch, appearing as only an overgrown field with a dilapidated barn in the far corner unless you were holding a valid ticket. It still didn't justify the lack of security, in his opinion, but what could you expect from a team with such garish uniforms.

He pulled his blue and gold ticket from his pocket, watching the stadium materialise before his eyes; the noise was almost deafening, even from this distance, and he supposed that must mean that the game had begun.

He climbed the rickety stairs on Puddlemere's side of the stands, ignoring any complaints from people who's view he was blocking, and made his way up to the highest box, usually reserved for the team's relatives.

His sister-in-law was already there, with her husband. She quickly wiped the bored expression from her face when she saw him, instead adopting a look of annoyance.

"You're late," she snapped. "If I'm forced to be here, then you should at least have the decency to turn up on time and provide somewhat _intelligent-"_ she threw a scornful look at her husband "-conversation to escape from the monotony of-"

"Supporting your sister in something she clearly enjoys?" he responded, only partially listening to Bellatrix's complaints, they were mostly for show; no one was forcing her to be here.

Bellatrix made a vaguely irritated noise of agreement, before nodding towards her husband. "And _he_ gets to stare at that Vanity girl. Did you know she was playing? Used to be in our House."

"Yes, I heard," Lucius said disdainfully. "Old rival of Narcissa's apparently."

The crowd erupted into cheers once again as Marston aimed a Bludger directly at one of the Wasps chasers head, forcing him to drop the Quaffle as he dodged the attack. It was quickly picked up by Puddlemere's keeper.

"And Atkins drops the Quaffle!" the commentator's voice echoed around the stadium. "Caldwell picks it up, and it's straight to Malfoy!"

Narcissa raced down the pitch, flanked on either side by Puddlemere's other two chasers, leaning forward over her broom. If he were close enough, he imagined he would be able to see her eyes narrowed in concentration, lips pursed, as she focussed solely on reaching the hoops. Her cloak billowed out behind her, caught in the wind, and her hair whipped around her face where it had escaped from the binds of her ponytail.

"She keeps possession of the Quaffle," the announcers voice startled Lucius enough that he momentarily turned his attention away from his wife, nearly missing the next move. "And Gardiner - what a woman! - sends a Bludger straight for her, but Malfoy's a skilled player!" Lucius scoffed at that; of course she was _skilled_. "She evades the attack, and passes the Quaffle to Waters! Flawless manoeuvre ladies!"

The Waters woman passes the Quaffle back to Narcissa as they near the Wasps' keeper, a harsh looking woman who looks like she's only taken marginally less Bludgers to the head than Gardiner.

"And, yet again, Ursula Morgan is facing all three of Puddlemere's chasers. Maybe she'll be more successful this-" Morgan dives after Narcissa who backs out of the scoring area and passes the Quaffle to Crane. Screams of fanatic celebration fill the stadium as Crane scores before Morgan has a chance to even change trajectory. "And he scores!" the presenter yells with seemingly endless enthusiasm.

Lucius watches as another ten points are added the Puddlemere's already sizeable total; even if they caught the Snitch, there wouldn't be any way for the Wasps to win.

Assured of the outcome already, he mostly ignores the somewhat repetitive gameplay and instead turns his full attention to his wife.

She's really in here element out here, completely at ease on a broom in a way that belies how long it took her to even get it off the ground back in first year. He can remember how much time and effort she'd put into mastering the sport; something that he hadn't fully understood at the time - why not work on the talents you already had? - but seeing her now, he fully understood how much freedom the game gave her.

"Waters is blocked by Kelley and Atkins, Vanity coming up in the centre. Is there about the be a - Wait!" The commentator stopped mid-sentence. "Maltby's on the move! Has she seen the Snitch?" The Wasps fans are finally given something to be excited about, as the woman dives suddenly heading straight towards the grassy oval of the pitch. Puddlemere's seeker isn't far behind, but she's at the opposite side and a lot higher. "And there goes Rose! It's looking to be a close one!" It really wasn't. "Aaaand," the mad drew out the first word, but spoke the rest of the sentence in a garbled rush. "Martha Maltby has the Snitch! One-fifty points to the Wasps! But will it be enough?"

Lucius sighed, turning his attention back to his wife once more. The Wasps were still fifty points behind, despite having caught the Snitch; this man's obvious sensationalism was entirely pointless.

Narcissa touched down on the pitch, already celebrating with her teammates over their latest victory. He watched as she pushed the escaped strands of hair out of her eyes, tipping her face up towards the Puddlemere stands, eyes locking onto the box. There was no way she could have seen him, but she grinned widely regardless, holding her broom up triumphantly.

The crowds cheering only increased in volume.

He sat back, content to let her enjoy this, a soft smile adorning his features.


	6. The Call of the Ocean - MermaidAU

_[Summary] - James/Lily [Mermaid!AU] He does not know what brought her to this beach, or what continues to bring her back, but he is thankful for it._

 **A/N –** This is written for Mary (MaryandMerlin). I'm so sorry you had to wait so long for this! I don't think this is anywhere near good enough to justify that. Hope you don't mind ridiculously sappy and vaguely stalkerish. Okay, it's very stalkerish. And more a little more angsty than I was planning (but you asked for that, so I figured it was okay).

* * *

He sees a flash of red, standing out in contrast to the dull morning; fog permeates the air, and he can barely see the rocks he knows to be at the edge of the tide, but somehow the red is visible in the distance. He slides off his rocky perch when it becomes apparent that no amount of squinting will bring the object into clearer focus, lowering himself into the sea with barely a sound.

He cuts easily through the water, swimming faster than any man could walk, and he reaches the rocks in a matter of seconds. He stops behind the largest boulder, pushing his head above the water slowly, webbed hands bracing himself against the rock. He pulls up, lifting himself with just the strength of his arms, sharp fingernails digging into the seaweed and the ridges across his palms and the pads of his fingers allowing him to keep a firm grip.

He stops when his eyes are just above the level of the rock, peering through the fog. His eye sight has always been better underwater; he can see further in the murky depths of the ocean than human eyesight would allow above it, but when he is out of the water most of what he sees is vague and it becomes harder for him to pick out the fine details that would have been obvious to him in the ocean.

Sinking back into the water, he curls his body around the rock so that he is mostly in front of it but his tail is still behind, keeping his eyes just below water level. He can see better now, the fog no longer hindering him, and the shape of a woman's back is obvious as she stands close to the cliffs on the far side of the beach.

Most of what he can make out is hair - and that is what drew him to her, after all. Beautiful red locks flowing in waves, like the tide on a calm day, until it reaches the soft curve of a hip.

Knowing nothing about her, having not even seen her face, he knows that he would do anything for her.

He will do anything to make her his.

.oOo.

He revisits that same spot every day. She doesn't always journey to the beach, but she is there often enough to justify his own trip.

Sometimes, she has friends with her, a couple girls who he thinks must also be from the nearby village, but usually she is alone. He prefers those times, as he is able to focus solely on her without other people trying to block his view.

He does not know what brought her to this beach, or what continues to bring her back, but he is thankful for it.

It is in those moments, where she is alone and he is hidden, that he feels he can truly see her. Not the show she puts on for her friends, of a happy girl with few cares, but the real her - a beautiful woman who is scared of-

He doesn't know what she is scared of, but he makes a silent promise to her that he will find out and that he will alleviate her fears.

.oOo.

It is during the summer, a warm evening with a calm tide, when he makes his first mistake.

She is alone, he hasn't seen her friends for some time - distantly, he wonders what has become of them, but mostly he is simply pleased to have her all to himself, even if she does not know it.

She is carrying her shoes in one hand; he assumes she is leaving footprints in the sand, and he would have liked to be able to take a closer look, for her feet have always fascinated him, but he does not wish for her to see him.

She stops, turning fully to face the expanse of the ocean. He is able to pretend, for a moment, that she is looking at him with that wistful expression, that she thinks him as beautiful as the ocean - as beautiful as _her_ \- but that moment is gone too soon.

He watches as she drops her shoes beside her, and he can almost see the displaced sand, but then she is stretching, lifting her shirt above her head and dropping it to the ground with her shoes. He had expected her to look more alien than she does, but her body is more similar to the females of his species than he had been led to believe. She doesn't have scales or gills or fins, of course, and her body does not reflect the evening sunlight as he is used to, but she is beautiful with her muted, delicate skin and he cannot see why she would wish to conceal her body in such a way.

She lets her shorts drop, too, and then she is running into the water, uncaring that anyone could see her. Her hair catches in the wind, streaming about her face like liquid fire, and-

What is _that_?

But he must make some sound or movement in his confusion, for she is suddenly looking directly at him and he can see her blurred form moving as if to shield herself from his eyes.

He drops back beneath the surface of the water, turning and swimming away as fast as he can.

He knows she will have already seen, that it is too late to run, but he must try.

.oOo.

He stays away from the shore for a long time after that. He can't let his people be discovered, and he has already risked too much.

His friends are curious at his sudden change of heart; they hadn't known where he was going, of course, or they would have attempted to join him, but they had noticed his absences around the same time each day.

He can only assume that they had been gearing up to follow him, when the incident occurred. It is unlike them to leave each other with secrets for long.

.oOo.

When he does go back, he is much more careful. He stays close to his rock, as he has begun to refer to it, and he ensures that he is always well below the surface of the water.

He doesn't see her that first time, but it is no matter, he reassures himself, for she has felt the call of the ocean and she will be hard pressed to resist it.

.oOo.

The next time he visits, she is not alone. He is thankful to see her at all, of course, but he could do without the sight of the unattractive girl that she is with. He does not understand how this girl could feel so comfortable when next to someone who is clearly so much better than her.

He knows he shouldn't, especially after the last time he saw her, but he slinks around the rock, keeping close to the ocean floor, and inches closer to the humans on the beach.

He thinks from their body language that they might be talking, but he cannot hear their words underwater. He contemplates, for a moment, raising his head above the surface, but dismisses the thought almost instantly. She has already seen him once, and he cannot risk it again.

He digs claw like nails into the sand, pulling himself along by the strength of his arms when moving his tail would draw their attention to him. He's lucky they aren't really paying attention to the ocean, but at the same time, he hates it. It was his one connection with the girl, and now this other-

 _No._

No! How dare he? How dare this unclean _man_ touch what did not belong to him? The girl was his, and no other's.

He can feel his features twisting into a snarl, exposing slightly pointed teeth, and he wants to surge forward and _tear_ them apart.

It is only the thought of the others - his family, his friends - that keeps him from doing as he wishes. Instead, he manages to keep a reign on his anger until he is a safe distance away, and only then does he unleash it deep below the surface of the ocean.

.oOo.

He still visits her, despite the now near-constant presence of the man. He doesn't understand how she is so willing to give her company to such a vile creature, to waste her time on someone so far beneath her, but he could never leave her.

Not after the months he has already wasted.

.oOo.

His mood takes an instant turn for the better, when, the next time he visits, it is clear from their body language that the two are having a heated argument in the privacy of the little-known beach.

He cannot hear their words, and this time he will not close the distance between them, but he takes up his usual position in front of his rock, eyes just beneath the surface of the water, and watches.

When the man leaves, he is ecstatic, he can barely contain his joy, for he knows that he will not be coming back. That the girl will remain his alone.

That joy, however, is short lived, for as soon as the man vanishes into the distance and his small figure can no longer be seen on the path above the tears, she falls to the ground, pulling at her hair with white-knuckled fingers, and opens her mouth in a scream he cannot hear.

That is not something he can ignore, and so, as the tears stream down her reddened cheeks, he swims closer, not bothering to keep himself hidden.

She does not notice his approach at first, the tears clouding her vision and her attention clearly elsewhere, but when she does notice him she freezes completely, staring at him in shock and what he hopes is a little awe.

He pulls himself onto the sand beside her, knowing that he cannot stay out of the water for long lest he suffocate, and only then does gather herself enough to move.

He smiles widely at her as she focusses her attention completely on him, as she has never been able to do before, something he has wished for ever since his first sighting of her.

"I remember you," she says, her lips turning down into a frown and her eyes hardening despite the tears still falling freely down her cheeks. He grins sheepishly; his mother had explained some of human customs to him, after he had finally caved and told her of the incident, but he could not say the words to apologise. His vocal chords were not capable of producing the sounds required for the human language.

But that was alright, because she was his, and everything that he is belongs to her, and he knows that everything will work out for them.

One day soon, she will know that, too.


	7. Centuries Past - VampireAU

_[Summary] - Lorcan/Bathilda [Vampire!AU] There were a lot of things that he had never questioned - that he had never bothered to seek the answers to - and he supposes that is partly why intelligence was always something he was drawn to in others. But then, maybe he also needed that reminder of her._

 **A/N** \- Written for Quidditch League Finals, Round 1 - Pairing Diversity. The Wanderers had Lorcan Scamander. I also had the optional prompts [word] Curious, Embrace and [emotion] Pride.

More friendship than romance, but I didn't want to change the genres.

* * *

She had been very young when they'd first met. Perhaps about fourteen years of age. But then, he had been the same age.

He doesn't remember much of their first meeting - certainly not as much has he would have liked - and it will be something that, years from now, he will come to regret. But, for now, he is a fourteen year old boy with very few cares who has just walked directly into a fourteen year old girl with her nose buried in a book.

"Will you watch where you're going?" he snaps, glaring down at her small form crouched at his feet. She is more concerned, however, with finding her place in her book than with the person who she has just walked into. "Are you listening to me?" he asks, noting the small grazes on her palms - but if she is unconcerned by them, then he doesn't see why it would be worth mentioning.

"What? Oh, yes, I-" she murmurs, still not looking up at him. "I'm fine. Are you alright?" she tacked the last sentence on, almost as an afterthought, only looking up when she was done speaking and had her finger marking a page in her book. Later, he would look back and remember how pretty she had been in her youth, with her dark hair and intelligent eyes, her flawless skin, and the slight traces of baby fat that still clung to her figure. Now, he is simply irritated.

"Yes, I'm fine," he growls, glaring down at her. "You should watch where you're going," he repeats. "Not everyone's going to be as forgiving as I am." She smiles up at him, her eyes crinkling in the corners and her full lips slightly parted.

"Yes, of course. I apologise."

"Right, well-"

"Well," she repeats with that same infuriating smile.

He pushes past her, walking briskly through the quiet streets of Godric's Hollow, and tries to push the incident from his mind as easily.

.oOo.

Their next meeting does not go much better. They are both a little older, though he is none the wiser for it.

She is clearly busy, and he has - or believes he has - better things to be doing with his time than taking note of the quiet girl who lives at the other end of their little village. They do not exchange greetings, but she gives him that same little smily as their first meeting, and he finds it just as irritating.

His only response is to glare, as he picks up his pace and resumes walking alongside his friend.

.oOo.

He still wouldn't be able to tell you why she had always been so pleasant to him - he certainly hadn't done anything to deserve it - but before he had not noticed, and after he had been too afraid to question it, fearing that she might leave. But we are not there yet.

"You shouldn't go there," she murmurs, interrupting a conversation he had been having with his friends that she had not been a part of. "Not this night." Curiosity got the better of him, and he pushes his annoyance aside for the time-being.

"Why not?" he challenges, raising his chin slightly.

"It's dangerous."

"There are no werewolves at this time of month," he replies instantly.

"It is not werewolves you should be worried about." He imagines anyone else would have left at this point, if not before, but not her. She stood her ground, despite being almost a foot shorter than him, and for once was not shying away from making eye contact.

He should have taken that as a sign - things would have been very different if he had - but he had chosen to ignore it, and that had been his downfall. He had let pride determine his actions, preferring to follow his friends than to take note of her advise. But by the time he had come to this realisation it was far too late.

.oOo.

He remembers things much clearer after that. He has always assumed it is because of the change, though he cannot know for certain. She would have, but he had never thought to ask. The first time he sees her after is something that will always be ingrained into his memory.

His father is keeping him locked in their small house's attic. Under any other circumstances he would have been furious, but he knows that this is for the best. He does not begrudge his father his fear. He has earned it.

That makes it all the more surprising, however, when there is a tentative knocking at the small window on the slope of the roof, too light to have been the scratching of an owl.

He walks over, measuring his pace and forcing himself to slow down even though there is no one else to see. He opens the old latch, nearly knocking her from her perch on the roof as he swings the window outward.

They both remain still, him with his arm outstretched and holding the window open, and her in her precarious crouch on the roof.

"What are you doing?" he asks, when he is able to find his voice.

"I came to see you," she says as though it were obvious, with that same irritating little smile, only he does not find it so irritating now, in this moment. More endearing, really. And there is perhaps a hint of kindness in her eyes that he had previously ignored.

He finds himself standing aside, wordlessly allowing her to climb through the window.

There are many questions that she could have asked - many questions that she probably should have asked, and that he certainly would have in her place - but he will always be thankful that she did not.

"I brought you a book," she says once she has given the attic a cursory once-over, holding the object in question out to him.

He is not a fan of reading, but he still accepts her gift with a smile of his own.

He finishes the book by the end of the week, and only years later will he learn that she had hand-copied the original for him, making the letters larger and clearer and easier to read.

.oOo.

He had only ever considered turning her once, when she was nearing twenty and he eternally on the verge of sixteen. It is only a fleeting thought, but he will always be able to conjure up that image he had of her. Eternally young and beautiful, the knowledge she had gained over the centuries clear to see in her eyes.

But he had known, even as the idea had come to him, that he could not do such a thing to her. Her place was amongst the living.

Things might have been different had be known her before, but that was something that he could not change. Instead, he watched as she grew into herself, shining brighter than any other.

He had watched as she aged, and gradually began to fade. He had stayed with her until the very end, long past the time when all traces of the girl he had known had disappeared.

.oOo.

Over a century after his first meeting with her, he found another girl. They were complete opposites in a lot of ways. But their eyes - one set so dark they were almost black, and the other so pale they could rival the moon - both held that same intelligent gaze.

At first, she had been more fascinated with what he was rather than who, but that had changed soon enough, and she had allowed him into her life. She would never be a replacement - she was too good to be simply that - but she did serve as a reminder to all that he had lost. To all that he could have had.

She had listened to his story - or, as much as he had been willing to tell - and embraced everything that he was.

"Lorcan?" the shout carries up the stairs of the small cottage. He drops his pen, stretching his arms above his head.

"What?" he yells through a yawn, not really caring that she probably couldn't hear him. He hears footsteps on the stairs, and then the door to his room is opening.

"Mum! Knock!" He glares at her, though she doesn't seem to notice.

"We're leaving in five minutes. Your brother's already ready." She gives him a _look_ as she says that, something he remembers from his mother in his true youth, something that should not be so effective against a creature over a century older than her. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He pushes his notebook under a stack of papers. "I'm ready. Let's go."


	8. The End - SnowWhiteAU

_[summary] - Regulus/Amelia [Snow White!AU] He still hadn't worked out whether she knew what she was doing, or whether she was simply ignorant. He told himself this was the reason he remained, even when there were more pressing matters which needed his attention._

 **A/N -** This is written for Danie (TrueBeliever831). I know you asked for a fairytale AU, and this isn't quite that, but I went with my favourite fan-theory for Snow White (the prince being a representation of death). Not really what you asked for, but I tried. (I'm not entirely happy with this, so I might go back and edit at some point.)

I also realise now that Susan's parents didn't die - at least, I don't remember it being mentioned in canon.

* * *

The first time he came into contact with her, he paid her no mind. He was there for the parents, and the three children huddled together in the back of the closet were of no consequence to him.

He cut the lifelines of the two adults, leaving the children where they were.

Someone would come for them… probably. It didn't really matter to him.

.oOo.

It was years later, when he next encountered the girl - now a young woman. He vaguely recognised her life-force, though it would be some time yet before he made the connection.

This time it was the boy - now a man, with a wife and two children. He paid the grieving sister a cursory glance - more than he had offered anyone in centuries - before turning his attention once more to the recently deceased family.

.oOo.

It wasn't long after that he saw her for a third time. He paid her more attention this time - it was unusual for him to recognise humans, these days. There were so many of them, and they had such short lifespans - but this one seemed different.

Unafraid. As though she knew she had nothing to fear from him.

Usually, in the presence of his kind, humans, whilst not knowing what there was to fear, always felt something was wrong.

Perhaps they felt eyes on them, or could somehow sense that they were in the presence of a higher being.

He couldn't tell if this meant the girl was special, or if it was just stupidity.

.oOo.

He had stayed with her after that - something that he'd never before felt the urge to do.

She took in her niece - her only remaining relative, it would seem - and treated the girl as if she were her own daughter.

He watched, as she needlessly put herself in danger - not by going out and fighting, but simply by expressing her unpopular opinions in a time where such a thing was punishable by death.

He still hadn't worked out whether she knew what she was doing, or whether she was simply ignorant. He told himself this was the reason he remained, even when there were more pressing matters which needed his attention.

.oOo.

He didn't normally concern himself with such trivial details, but he found he could not keep referring to her as 'the girl'. Partly because she was no longer a girl - by the human measure of age, she was far from a child - but mostly because, although he had yet to gain a proper understanding of her, he found her fascinating.

 _"Amelia_ ," he whispered, knowing that she could not hear him, and trailed ghost-like fingers through her long, red hair.

He couldn't suppress the feeling of satisfaction - something so completely alien to him - when she shivered at his touch.

.oOo.

He took to finding out all he could about her - following friends, colleagues, distant acquaintances, but he always came back to her.

He had yet to work out what drew him to her with such fervour. He felt that she was different - how could she not be? - but he could not distinguish any specific characteristics which made her so. He hated the feeling of confusion her very presence caused him, and yet…

And yet, it was this very confusion which drew him back, time and time again.

.oOo.

He knew the end was near when, one unassuming day, she turned around and… stopped.

They were alone, in an empty room of the Ministry, long past the time when most employees had returned home. There was no one else she could be staring at, mouth agape and eyes wide in shock.

But if she could see him…

That did not bode well for her, and some part of her must have known this. He had never seen such fear on her before.

There was no way for him to know how he appeared to her - it was different for each individual, but always someone they found comfort or safety in (he found himself picturing the tall, dark haired man who she had seemed to admire during her Hogwarts days, if her co-worker was anything to go by) - but he was certain that this was not the cause of her fear.

Perhaps she could feel something from him, some trace of death or something that distinguished him as being inherently _different_. Or, perhaps, there was simply some part of her that knew her time was coming to an end.

She dropped her glass and ran, looking younger even than his first sighting of her.

.oOo.

After that, he always ensured to remain out of her sight, but he could not escape the mounting sense of foreboding.

He should not be feeling this way - her death was inevitable - and yet…

And yet, if there was a way, he would have willingly changed all laws of nature for this one insignificant human.

That was what scared him the most.

.oOo.

When the day finally came, he was not prepared. He had left, finally unable to continue putting off his work.

He hadn't known it would be today - she wasn't on his list; there was no way for him to know - but he felt the guilt, nonetheless. He should have seen the signs - noticed her diminishing life-force - _something_.

But he hadn't, and she had suffered greatly for it.

He would have given her a quick death, ended her life before he time was fully up to save her from the suffering he could see she would endure, but his brother had not been so kind.

He arrived just as his brother was preparing to take her soul, and his sudden appearance startled the other being enough that he paused in his work.

 _"What are you doing here?"_ his brother asked, watching him with a wary suspicion. He was aware he was acting out of character, but he had come to think of this human as _his_.

 _"I will take this one,_ " he said by way of response, not fully answering the question. His brother simply nodded, however, and stepped back, watching him for a few moments more before vanishing.

He reached her side as she was taking her last breaths. He grasped her cold hand in his, trying to ignore the obvious signs of torture that covered her body. He had failed her, he knew that, but he would make this last step an easy one.

Bending down, he placed a chaste kiss to help narrow lips, her very last exhale tapering off against his mouth. He pulled her up gently, still holding her hand, and helped free her soul.

He led her with him, out of that dismal room - on to the afterlife, and whatever that may bring her.


	9. His Long-Suffering Assistant -MagicianAU

_[Summary] Seamus/Lavender [Magician!AU] "You're mad," he said, receiving only an eye roll in response. "Is it going to affect the act?"_

 **A/N** \- This is written for Ash (Fire The Canon). Congrats on winning Chapter 6 of the Acrostic-y challenge! You did a really great job :)

Sorry this took so long, and about the characterisations. I don't think I've written these two before, but this is what happens when you misread musician.

* * *

"Why are you always so _scruffy_?" she snapped, adjusting his bowtie for perhaps the tenth time that evening.

"Stop it," he said, making a half-hearted attempt at pushing her hands away. "It doesn't matter how I look when I'm not on stage."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you expect your costume to magically fix itself as soon as you got on stage?" she said, straightening his collar. "Magic isn't real, Seamus."

"You'll have us out of a job with talk like that," he said, grinning down at her. He could see the stage manager glaring at them from the corner of his eye, gesturing towards the stage. "Shall we, m'lady?" he asked with an exaggerated bow, before turning with a flourish of his cape and striding into the bright lights to the applause of the crowd.

.oOo.

"That was an amazing show!" Lavender said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Even if there was that one slight mishap," she muttered, expression darkening briefly before the excited grin was back in place. "You were great!"

"I can't take all the credit." He grinned, and, impossibly, her face brightened. "The audience was fantastic; best we've ever had." Her smile dimmed slightly, but she nodded along.

"Yeah, they were great," she agreed. "Anyway," she said, changing the topic. "Are you doing anything tonight?"

"We're going down to the pub for a couple drinks," he said.

"We?" she asked, smile brightening once more.

"Yeah, me and Dean."

"Oh." Her smile dropped completely from her face, and her entire demeanour changed. "Well, wouldn't want to keep him waiting," she said, gesturing over to the makeup artist, storming away before he could get in another word.

.oOo.

"You're an idiot," was all Dean would say when he recounted the tale later that night.

.oOo.

"Apparently I'm an idiot," he said by way of greeting, falling into the chair next to Lavender.

"You really are." She didn't look at him, instead keeping her attention riveted to the plain wall in front of her.

"Any idea why?" he asked after a short pause.

"Unbelievable," she snapped, once again storming off.

.oOo.

"You're mad," he said, receiving only an eye roll in response. "Is it going to affect the act?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "I'm a professional." She handed him a rabbit. "Be careful with this one. I doubt the pet shop will sell us another."

"What's its name?" he asked, ignoring her last comment.

"He doesn't have one," she answered, still lacking her usual bubbly demeanour.

"You always name the rabbits."

"I name them, they die."

"Alright," he said after a pause, adjusting his hold on the squirming creature and getting into position.

"Be careful," she repeated with a warning glare.

.oOo.

"After some thought," he began, "I have decided that I _am_ an idiot."

"Go on," she said, petting the rabbit. Its fur was perhaps a little patchy but, otherwise, the creature remained unharmed. He took a deep breath.

"The audience was great, but you were better," he said. "Always are."

"Oh?" was her only response.

"Yeah, and I don't tell you enough-" He paused at her glare, before amending his words. "Or at all, really, but I couldn't do this without you."

"Because the pet shop wouldn't serve you if I wasn't there?" she asked.

"Exactly! Wait- no. I could do the show without a rabbit. Probably go a bit smoother, too. What I mean is…" he trailed off, struggling to find the right words, before abruptly changing tactics. "Do you want to go to the pub after the show?"

"With you?" she asked. He nodded in response. "And Dean?"

"No, just us. Like a date."

" _Like_ a date?"

"An actual date."

"To the _pub_?" she asked, scrunching her nose in distaste. She seemed to think about it for a moment, before nodding.

"You'll take me to a nice restaurant. Pick me up tomorrow at eight thirty."

"Why don't we just do something tonight? We're both already here." The glare she sent him said more than words could. "Tomorrow, half eight. Got it."

"Bring flowers."


	10. Chance Encounters - HospitalAU

_[Summary] Harry/Draco [Hospital AU]_ _The man was heading out of the ward, head down and deep shadows under his eyes. Draco was tempted to ask if he was okay, but didn't think he would particularly appreciate it._

 **A/N** \- This is written for Rayne (Rayniekinzz). Not a Lucissa AU this time :) Still an AU, though…

This was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. Mostly those middle sections really; I think I've got about three different versions of it.

Also (just because I'm not sure how clear this is) all of these scenes take place by the lifts, on various floors.

* * *

"Malfoy? What are you doing here?" Draco looked up, startled, at suddenly being addressed. It was a quiet night at the hospital - usually foreshadowing a sudden surge in patients, but he wasn't planning on worrying about that just now - and he wasn't expecting visitors during the graveyard shift.

"I work here," he said, after a moment. It had taken him a while to place a name to the face currently watching him with mild confusion; not because he didn't recognise the man, but simply because it was such an unexpected sight. The elusive Harry Potter, sighted at last. "Can I help you?" he asked with feigned politeness.

"I- I'm here to visit-" Potter began.

"Visiting hours are over," Draco said. "You can come back tomorrow morning." He made as if to turn away, but Potter began to speak again.

"I was hoping to visit when there weren't so many people," Potter said. "The nurse yesterday-"

"Hoping for some special treatment, were you?" Draco sneered.

"No, I-" Potter shifted uncomfortably. "I just wanted to visit my son." Draco felt a brief flash of something - guilt? embarrassment? - but he pushed it aside before it could fully register. Draco nodded, pointing him in the direction of the boys ward, despite knowing he must already know the way.

Potter nodded his thanks and walked stiffly away.

.oOo.

He was just finishing up his shift when he next saw Potter. The man was heading out of the ward, head down and deep shadows under his eyes. Draco was tempted to ask if he was okay, but didn't think he would particularly appreciate it.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter said, somehow managing to sound even more tired than he looked.

"Potter," Draco replied, nodding slightly in acknowledgement.

"So," Potter said, breaking the slightly uncomfortable silence. "You're a nurse now?"

"Yeah," Draco said stiffly. "Training to be a doctor."

"Oh? That's… nice."

"Not what you expected?"

"No, not really." The awkwardness seemed to have lessened somewhat, but it was still present. "I figured you'd follow your father into politics."

"Well, I didn't," Draco said shortly.

"Yeah, I can see that," Harry chuckled uncomfortably. "What made you choose medicine?"

"I wanted to. I like it." Draco knew he could be more helpful, keep the conversation moving, but he didn't particularly feel the need. They weren't friends and, whilst he felt sorry for the man - enough to be civil, at least - he wasn't going to go out of his way to be friendly.

.oOo.

"Malfoy? Isn't your shift normally over by now?" Potter asked. When he'd familiarised himself with Draco's schedule, Draco had no idea.

"I'm on day-shift now," he said, not caring to elaborate. Potter had a well-worn teddy under one arm, and was carrying several comic books. Draco considered asking after his son, but decided that it was none of his business.

"New comic book day," he said with a grin, noticing where Draco's eyes had been.

"Right," Draco said with a nod, not familiar with any of the overly muscled characters in strange costumes and bright colours.

"Thor," Potter said, as if that would mean something to Draco.

"Uh huh."

"You don't like Thor?" Potter asked incredulously.

"Why would I? Those are for children," Draco said dismissively, ignoring Harry's slightly offended expression. Draco stepped into the lift without another word.

.oOo.

"Hey, Malfoy," Potter called, running to catch the lift before the doors shut. "I got you a coffee."

"Uh, thanks." Draco frowned, confused, but accepted to costa cup regardless. He took a hesitant sip, his frown deepening.

"Okay, so it's tea. Still caffeine. Less caffeine, but-"

"I like tea," Draco said with a shrug, taking a longer swallow. Harry seemed to release a breath.

"Good, that's… good." He didn't seem to be bringing anything today. Again, Draco found himself wanting to ask about the child, but it really wasn't his business.

.oOo.

"Hi," a small voice said. The child was standing at Draco's elbow, smiling widely up at him. His frame was perhaps a little on the skinny side, and his skin just a bit too pale, but his eyes were bright and happy, and he continued to grin up at Draco, waiting for a response.

"Hello," Draco said. He tried looking around for a parent, but the boy had other ideas.

"My name's James," he said, still smiling. "I'm seven."

"Hi, James," Draco said, assuming a parent would turn up. "I'm… a little older than seven."

"How much older? Like Teddy or Dad? Or Grandma Molly?"

"I am most assuredly not as much older than seven as Grandma Molly," Draco said indignantly. He could hear laughter to his left, and turned to see Potter walking over and grinning like a fool. "And what do you find so amusing?" he snapped.

"C'mon, Draco," and when had Potter started calling him Draco? "he didn't mean it." The words might have held a little more value if he'd managed to stop laughing. "James, you've upset Mister Malfoy," Potter said, turning to the child - his son, presumably.

"Oh! My dad likes you!" James told Draco, clearly excited. "He talks about you _all_ the time."

Draco chanced a glance at Potter; he'd gone bright red, his eyes looking at everything but Draco.

"We should really get going," he finally muttered, moving as if to steer the child towards the opening lift.

"But, Dad," James whined.

"You must be tired, and I want to get you home quickly," Potter said, perfectly reasonably in Draco's opinion. James, however, did not agree.

"I want to talk more with Mister Malfoy," James scowled, sulking. "I know!" he said, suddenly brightening. "You should get his number, 'cause then he could come visit."

"He won't let up any time soon," Potter said, before Draco could say anything, still looking anywhere but Draco.

"Well then I suppose I'd best give you my number," Draco said with a smirk; it took all of his willpower to hide his amusement at Potter's shock.

"Really? Um, yeah, that'd be…" Harry trailed off, handing his phone over, fumbling slightly with the lock screen.

"There you are, Potter," Draco said, handing the phone back after quickly typing in his number. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Maybe you should call me Harry," Harry said.

"Alright… Harry," Draco tried out the name; it felt a little strange, but not entirely unpleasant.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Harry repeated his words with a smirk.


	11. One Step Closer - DifferentHouseAU

_[Summary] - Sirius/Remus [HouseSwap!AU]_ _All eyes were on the three boys, who were somehow twenty minutes late despite having taken the same subject last period as half the class._

 **A/N** \- Written for Maggie [Angelo Della Magnolia]. Happy Birthday! I'm sorry I didn't really use any of your prompts (except Wolfstar, of course), but I hope you still like it :)

Also written for the Wigtown Wanderers' practice round on Quidditch League. Beater One - write about the cliche of House Swap - with the optional prompts [word] careful, [dialogue] "Are you asking me or telling me?", and [song] A Thousand Years by Christina Perri (which is where the italicised lyrics come from).

And I'd like to thank FF [Firefly81] for beta'ing.

* * *

 _Heart beats fast_

 _Colours and promises_

 _How to be brave?_

 _How can I love when I'm afraid to fall?_

.oOo.

"Sorry we're late, Professor," Sirius Black called from the back of the classroom. The door swung shut behind Pettigrew with a bang. All eyes were on the three boys, who were somehow twenty minutes late despite having taken the same subject last period as half the class. With a sigh, Remus turned back to his work, eyeing the empty seat next to him warily.

"Hey," Sirius said, grinning as he dropped into the seat next to Remus. "I'm Sirius." _I know_ , Remus thought; there probably wasn't anyone in the school who didn't know who Sirius Black was.

"Remus," he said quietly; the smile on his face felt a little strained.

"So, Remus," Sirius said, unfettered. "What are we doing today?" That grin was still in place, and he seemed far more confident than any teenager had a right to be.

"The instructions are on the board," Remus said, internally wincing. He'd never been great at talking to people, least of all people like Sirius Black.

"Alright, then. I guess we're preparing ingredients?" he said, picking up the knife. Remus didn't bother replying, just handed the root over for Sirius to begin slicing.

.oOo.

"Remus!" someone called across the Great Hall. He looked around for the source, finding no one. He turned back to his food, startling to find Sirius Black sitting in the seat next to him, looking expectant.

"Um… hi," Remus said. He could feel his face turning red, probably matching Sirius' robes.

"Hey, so it looks like we're gonna be partners in Potions for this project," Sirius said, ignoring - or perhaps not noticing - the awkwardness Remus was feeling. "So we're probably gonna need to meet up at some point," Sirius prompted, after the silence had stretched on just a little too long.

"Uh, yeah. Probably." Remus nodded, eyes flicking from Sirius to his toast. He was hungry, but he felt weird eating in front of Sirius.

"Great. I'll meet you in the library after dinner." Sirius grinned, grabbing the slice of toast from Remus' plate and ran over to his friends. Remus turned back to the table, feeling his heart sink as he watched the remaining food disappear.

.oOo.

"Hey, Remus!" he heard Sirius' voice before Sirius rounded the corner. "I felt bad for eating your breakfast, so I got you this," he said, handing over a small wrapped parcel. "I figured you wouldn't want to risk being late for class, so you probably didn't stop by the kitchens." Remus didn't want to say he had no idea where the kitchens were, so he just kept quiet. "Anyway, I'll see you in Potions," Sirius said, turning and heading back the way he had come before Remus could say anything.

Remus pulled back the paper to find two soft rolls. He'd devoured one before even reaching the stairs.

.oOo.

"Thanks for breakfast," Remus said as soon as he sat down, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction when Sirius startled.

"Well, I did eat yours," Sirius said, recovering almost instantly. He smiled at Remus then, looking more at ease than Remus thought possible, and Remus pulled the textbook over to himself, ducking his head in an effort to hide his blush.

"We should get started," he said, before they could get too off topic.

"Straight to business; I like that," Sirius said, opening his own textbook.

.oOo.

"How come you're always alone?" Sirius asked, walking in step with Remus. Remus wasn't entirely sure where he'd come from, but he was starting to realise that with Sirius Black it was a lot easier not to question things.

"I don't really have any friends," Remus said. He used to be embarrassed about that - he probably still should - but it just wasn't practical. He didn't want to have to lie to his friends, so he'd convinced himself that it was easier not to have any.

"Aren't we friends?" Sirius asked, a slight pout forming on his lips.

"Oh, um," Remus stuttered, struggling to come up with a response. Sirius just laughed and changed the topic, seemingly unfazed.

"I was just wondering where you were in Potions last week. I haven't seen you since Thursday."

"Oh, uh, I've been… ill. I was ill," Remus muttered, avoiding looking directly at Sirius. "Where are your friends?" he asked abruptly. He could see Sirius frowning slightly out of the corner of his eye, but thankfully Sirius let it drop.

"James' going after Evans again. And I think Peter just fancied a show."

"Evans? Lily Evans?" Remus asked, recognising the name.

"Yeah, you know her?"

"I helped her with Defence Against the Dark Arts last year. And we're both prefects, so…" Remus trailed off, noting Sirius' expression.

"You're a prefect?"

"Uh… yeah."

"You're not gonna dock house points, are you?" Sirius asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

"For what?"

"Nothing," Sirius said with another of his grins; he'd answered a little too quickly, but Remus was still tired so he didn't bother questioning it.

.oOo.

"Careful," Sirius said, managing to catch Remus' book before it hit the ground. "You should really watch where you're going."

"Sorry," Remus muttered, staring down at his feet. The silence stretched, making Remus feel uncomfortable but, as usual, Sirius seemed unaffected.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I was just looking for you, actually."

"You were?" Remus asked, looking up at Sirius with startled blue eyes.

"Yeah, c'mon," Sirius said, grabbing Remus' hand and dragging him down the corridor without further explanation. Remus could feel himself blushing, and he certainly wasn't oblivious to the stares other students were giving them, but he couldn't bring himself to complain.

"Where are we?" Remus asked once they'd stopped. "Isn't this Hufflepuff?"

"No, Hufflepuff's down those stairs," Sirius said with a gesture. "And we couldn't get in there, anyway. We'd get doused in vinegar."

"What? How would you know that?"

"Oh, like you've never tried to get into another house's common room," Sirius said, turning to face a painting of a bowl of fruit. Remus hadn't, actually, but he didn't feel it was worth mentioning. "We're here for the kitchens."

"There's nothing here," Remus said, beginning to wonder is Sirius was playing a prank on him. Sirius just grinned, reaching out to… _tickle the pear?_

"You, my friend, are in for a surprise."

.oOo.

"You missed Potions again," Sirius said by way of greeting.

"Oh, um… My Grandma died," Remus stuttered. Sirius looked a little doubtful, and Remus really hoped Sirius would leave it at that.

"Okay. I'm sorry," Sirius said, and Remus let out the breath he had been holding. "You don't look so good." And, suddenly Remus was struggling to breathe again.

"Um… We were, uh… really close," he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"Right. Sorry. I'll just…" Sirius made a few vague hand gestures, walking backwards as he spoke. It was probably the most awkwardly Remus had seen Sirius behave, but he couldn't bring himself to enjoy the sudden role reversal.

"Yeah, okay."

"Bye," Sirius blurted, spinning on his heels and walking down the corridor as fast as he could without breaking out into a jog.

.oOo.

"Hey, so I was wondering," Sirius began, as though they hadn't gone nearly a month without speaking. "Hogsmeade is next weekend."

"Yeah, I know," Remus said.

"We should go together," Sirius said, acting as if this wasn't completely out of the blue.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Would you, Remus Lupin, care to join me on an excursion this weekend to Hogsmeade Village?" Sirius asked loudly, complete with sweeping gestures. It was not funny - _it wasn't_ \- but Remus found himself struggling to keep the smile from his face.

"Uh, sure, I-" Remus didn't notice Sirius' confused expression. "Oh, um… I have a project due next week, so…"

"That's okay," Sirius said, far too cheerfully for someone who had just been rejected. "I figured you wouldn't be able to go." Remus had no idea what Sirius meant by that, or why he would even bother asking if he thought Remus wouldn't be able to go.

"Okay. I guess I'll… see you around," Remus muttered, watching Sirius' retreating form.

It would only occur to him later to question how Sirius had known his surname.

.oOo.

"Finally awake?" Sirius asked - Remus had decided not to put too much thought into how he instantly recognised Sirius' voice.

"Wha-?" he groaned, still groggy. The bright lights of the Hospital Wing greeted him when he finally managed to pry his eyes open, and he spared a brief moment to question where Madam Pomfrey was, before Sirius' face took up his entire vision.

"You could have just told me, you know," Sirius said, and Remus would have asked what he was talking about if it weren't so painfully obvious.

"How'd you get past Pomfrey?" Remus croaked, wincing at his dry throat. Sirius poured him a glass of water before replying.

"James has come down with a sudden case of dragon pox that required immediate attention."

"Potter?" Remus asked, his voice a little stronger after a few careful sips of water.

"Yeah. You'll like him," Sirius said. "Well, probably not. He'll grow on you. Or maybe you'll just get used to him."

"You mean like Lily has?" he asked. His eyes dropped closed before Sirius could answer, though, and the last thing he heard was Madam Pomfrey scolding someone at the other end of the Hospital Wing before he drifted off to sleep.

.oOo.

 _But watching you stand alone,_

 _All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow._

* * *

 **A/N -** I know I never explicitly stated what House Remus was in here, but (as it's pretty clear he's not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff) Ravenclaw's really the only House he could be in, though feel free to imagine him in Slytherin.

In regards to Sirius not knowing Remus' surname (or even name, before the beginning of this), it's either that he didn't notice Remus much beforehand, or that Remus didn't think Sirius would know who he was.

And, as Remus' eye colour is never mentioned in the books (brown or amber is just fanon) I've gone for blue, as that's the eye colour of the actor who plays him. I wouldn't even bother mentioning it, except that there were a lot of complaints when I didn't call Hermione's mother Jean in something else I wrote.


	12. Barriers - DemonAU

_[summary] – Harry/Draco [Demon!AU] He was either incredibly lucky or Draco was incredibly unlucky. He was inclined to believe it was both._

 **A/N -** Written for Round 3 of QL, with the prompts Wanderers and 2001-2250 words, and the optional prompts [quote] All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us – JRR Tolkein, and [word] Faithful.

Wordcount - 2059

This is for Linda (she didn't leave a username). It's sort of what you asked for, but mostly isn't.

And thank you Liza [NeonDomino] and Dina [DinoDina] for beta'ing.

* * *

 _All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us_

 _JRR Tolkein_

.oOo.

He regarded the mortal with an intense concentration he usually only reserved for prey. Under any other circumstances, the man would have fallen under this category, but in this case he was either incredibly lucky or Draco was incredibly _un_ lucky. He was inclined to believe it was both.

"You summoned me?" Draco asked, a mocking smile twisting his features.

"I– I suppose I did," the man said. Draco's smirk widened, his amusement beginning to outweigh his irritation.

"You summoned me because…?" The mortal swallowed audibly, eyes widening.

"Oh, er… I need your help," he said. "Please."

"You drag me to this realm against my will and _now_ you start asking nicely?" Draco scoffed.

"Well, I mean, you could go back. If you wanted," he said.

"You really have no idea how this works, do you?" Draco asked. The mortal shook his head quickly. "Then why the hell were you summoning demons?"

"Well–" he began.

"If you mention that _show_ I will kill you right now," Draco interrupted him. "Consequences be damned."

"What show?" he asked, his confusion seemingly stronger than his nerves.

"That's the spirit," Draco said cheerfully, though he accompanied his words with an eye roll. "So, what required the help of your friendly neighbourhood demon?" he asked, taking the time to look around the room. He ignored the large window – he'd been to this realm before, though admittedly not often, and he knew he didn't particularly care for its sights – in favour of the desk. The assortment of knick-knacks, books and photographs looked promising.

"I need your help," the man said again.

"Yes, we've covered that," Draco said, already flicking through a photo album.

"Don't touch that!" the man snapped, snatching the book from Draco's hands. Draco shot him an irritated look, but continued perusing the desk mostly unperturbed. "I need to… _find_ something," he said.

"And what is it you wish to _find?_ " Draco mimicked the way the man had said the word. This was clearly going to be a rather boring excursion. The man didn't respond for several minutes, long enough that Draco turned his attention away from the box he was inspecting. "Well?" he asked.

"I need to find a soul," the man eventually replied. _Of course_ , Draco thought, _trying to bring a loved one back to life. How unoriginal_. "Or, part of one."

"Oh, do tell." The man now had Draco's full attention, though he kept his gaze focused on the desk, only watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Have you heard of Horcruxes?"

.oOo.

"I'm Harry, by the way," the man said suddenly. Draco glared at him. "Sorry. Forgot to mention before."

"It's been three days," Draco deadpanned.

"I was distracted," the man – _Harry_ – tried to defend himself, hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"Ah, yes. Your quest to find this Horcrux," Draco said. "How could I forget. It's not like it's the only thing you ever talk about."

"Y'know, this would probably go a lot quicker if you actually helped."

"I am helping," Draco was quick to defend himself. "I'm doing everything you asked of me."

"Yes. Ever the faithful companion," Harry muttered, lengthening his stride in a futile effort to outpace Draco.

"What do you need this Horcrux for?" Draco asked, easily matching Harry's new pace.

"It's part of a spell," Harry said.

"What spell?"

"Look," Harry said, stopping and turning to face Draco. "We don't have time for all these questions."

"I'm not the one stopping," Draco said.

"No, but you are distracting me," Harry muttered. Draco felt oddly pleased at that.

.oOo.

"Did you ever tell me your name?" Harry asked as they were setting up camp.

"Did you ever ask?" Draco snapped, offended.

"Oh, er… What's your name, then?" Harry said awkwardly, finally getting the last tent peg hammered into the ground, and turned to face Draco fully.

"It's Draco," he said.

"Draco? Really?" Harry asked. "That's a little anti-climatic, isn't it?"

"It could be worse," Draco said. "I could be called _Harry_."

"I meant for a demon. Shouldn't you have a name like… Azazel or something?"

"One more reference to that show, and I'll–"

"No, I'm sorry," Harry said quickly. "Why don't you start the fire and I'll get us something to eat?"

Draco set fire to his tent.

.oOo.

"I could start us a fire?" Draco innocently suggested, watching Harry shiver.

"No. Your fire privileges have been revoked."

"You should treat me with a little more respect," Draco said. "I'm centuries older than you."

"No you're not."

"…What?"

"My friend looked you up," Harry said, shoving his hands under his armpits and turning his eyes towards Draco. "You're like a… baby demon or something." Draco opened his mouth to protest. "Oh, you can't tell me there's no such thing," Harry said. "I know you have parents."

"You know nothing of my kind," Draco snapped. "For all you know I stepped, fully formed, from the fire exactly as you see me now," Draco said proudly.

"As a scrawny teenager?"

"First of all," Draco said. "I'm not scrawny. Secondly, as I have said many times before, _this is not my true form!_ "

.oOo.

"What is your true form?" Harry asked. Draco watched him carefully.

"What do you need the Horcrux for?" he asked instead of answering the question.

"Alright. I guess we better get a move on, then," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet.

"If you at least told me _whose_ Horcrux it was, this would go a lot quicker," Draco complained, trailing after Harry. "Flying's much easier," he muttered under his breath.

"So you have wings?" Harry asked. "And I don't need you to help me _find_ the Horcrux – though obviously your help is appreciated," he added quickly before Draco could comment. "I need you to help me _get_ it."

"Is there a difference?" Draco asked.

"There's so many protective spells that it would be impossible to find with magic, but–"

"Couldn't you just find the area with the sudden spike in magic?" Draco interrupted.

"That's how we got to this forest," Harry said. "Or, well, Hermione found it. She's–"

"Your friend, yes," Draco snapped.

"Yes. She is. My friend." Harry frowned at Draco. "And if she says this is the closest we can get with magic, then I believe her."

"So why am I here?" Draco asked, turning his glare to Harry.

"Because I'm going to need you to get it."

"I thought you said magic wouldn't help you?" Draco asked, his irritation forgotten and now genuinely curious.

"You came from a different realm. If anyone could get it, it's you," Harry said. Draco felt himself swell with pride, but did his best not to show it.

"Of course. Who else?"

.oOo.

"Are you sure we can trust him?" the girl whispered, apparently unaware Draco could hear her.

"This was your idea," Harry said at a normal volume.

"I just–" She stopped abruptly; Draco imagined she was looking around the clearing, as though she stood any chance of seeing him when he didn't want to be seen. "I don't like the idea of you being alone with him."

"We agreed that this would be easier," Harry said.

"But certainly not _safer_ ," she hissed.

"He's a big boy, 'Mione, he can take care of himself," the third person spoke at last.

"I still don't like it, Ron," the girl – _'Mione? That doesn't sound like a proper name,_ Draco thought – said.

"It's not like you won't be able to help if I need it," Harry tried to placate his friend.

Draco scoffed at this, and was half tempted to blow his cover. Those two idiots wouldn't be able to get within a mile of him without his noticing; how did they expect to overpower him?

But they seemed to mean a lot to his– to Harry, so Draco let them believe that they were undetected in their clueless wandering of the forest.

.oOo.

"This is it!" Harry whispered, radiating with excitement.

"Why are you whispering?" Draco asked loudly, shooting Harry an annoyed look that Harry was quick to return.

"Well, there's no telling what spells they have set," Harry said. "But there's no point trying to be subtle now."

"They've been aware of us for the last three days," Draco said, ignoring Harry's stunned look. "What good would subtlety to us now?"

"You– Why–" Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Why the _hell_ didn't you say anything sooner?" he snapped.

"You didn't ask."

"That's–" Harry faltered. "I can't exactly ask every single question!" he snapped.

"Of course not," Draco said calmly. "That would be unreasonable." Harry looked like he was about to reply, but Draco spoke over any words he might have said. "It wouldn't have been an unreasonable question, though. 'Are we being followed?' 'Yes.' Honestly, Harry, there's not much to it." Harry took a deep breath.

"Or perhaps," he said, enunciating each word carefully. "You could have said 'Harry, I think we're being followed,' and–"

"I didn't think we were being followed," Draco interrupted. "I _knew_ we were being followed." Harry opened and closed his mouth for a few moments, struggling to formulate a reply.

"Look, this isn't getting us anywhere," he snapped. "There's the horcrux." He pointed towards it. "Now do… whatever magic it is you need to do." Draco shot Harry an annoyed look before stepping closer to the horcrux. He wasn't entirely sure what it _was_ exactly but he knew it was ugly, and spent more time trying to figure out why someone would voluntarily place a piece of their soul into such an object than how he would retrieve the thing.

He shrugged, deciding to start with the simplest approach. He reached out a hand, feeling slight resistance as he reached the protective magical barrier, but his hand was quickly through and grasping the horcrux.

"Well I could have done that," Harry muttered, glaring at the object clutched in Draco's fist.

Draco was about to reply when his vision seemed to flicker for a moment, disorienting him. Just as he thought he was recovered from the strange feeling, everything turned white.

"What's happening?" Harry yelled in an attempt to be heard over the sudden wind. Draco barely heard; he couldn't see anything, and it felt as though he was being lifted.

"I don't know," he muttered, straining his eyes, hoping to see better. "I don't know!" he shouted so that Harry might hear. "This isn't–" He felt like he was being pulled a part, and he could feel his form shifting.

Then there was nothing.

.oOo.

 _"What are you doing, Draco?" his mother asked. He could feel her presence behind him, but he did not turn to look at her and she did not approach._

 _"I spent a lot of time helping that idiot," Draco said. "I just want to make sure he doesn't screw anything up."_

 _His mother joined him then, in the place where the barrier between realms was the weakest, where demons could watch the happenings of other worlds._

 _"I didn't even get to say goodbye," Draco whispered. His mother remained silent for a moment – long enough that Draco would have believed she'd left if not for the fact that he could still feel her – before sitting next to him on the outcrop._

 _"Perhaps you could return?" she suggested quietly, keeping her focus on the other realm rather than her son._

 _"But–" Draco began. "But I would need to be summoned."_

 _"Not necessarily," his mother said. Suddenly, a small family of humans seemed to have captured her entire attention, and she leant forward to pay them a closer look._

 _"But if I wasn't summoned…" Draco trailed off. "If I wasn't– But then… Then I wouldn't be able to return," he whispered._

 _"That is a decision you must come to on your own," his mother said, finally turning to face him. "But just know this – whatever you decide, ensure that it is the right decision for_ you _."_

 _Draco watched her leave, and continued to watch the place where she had disappeared for a few moments longer, before turning his attention back to the forest._

 _It only took one look for him to know what he was going to do._


	13. Devil's Night - GhostAU

_[summary] – Regulus/Hermione [Ghost!AU] She had made it a point to know the names and histories of every ghost in the castle, which is why, upon entering the library, she stopped in confusion. Because there he was._

 **A/N –** This is for Myc [Mycroft-mione]. I hope you like it :)

Also, Hermione's in Ravenclaw in this AU. I do mention it, but not until the second section, I think.

* * *

 _30th October, 1991_

She had made it a point to know the names and histories of every ghost in the castle, which is why, upon entering the library, she stopped in confusion. Because there he was, wandering through the shelves of books, his fingers trailing through each of the spines. He froze when he caught sight of her, frowning.

"Who are you?" she blurted before she could think of something more polite to say. He tipped his head to the side. "I mean," she started again. "I've never seen you before. And I know all the ghosts– Well, I don't _know_ them, so much as know _of_ them–"

"I find that highly unlikely," he said, watching her passively.

"No, I do!" she insisted. "There's the House ghosts; everyone knows them, obviously. And Myrtle–"

"What about Edgar?" he asked. She nodded enthusiastically.

"He's around the Quidditch Pitch. I'm not overly fond of the sport, myself, but I hear he helps out a lot in practices, and–"

"Edmund Grubb?" he interrupted.

"He died in the Great Hall," she answered instantly. "I missed breakfast everyday last week, 'cause he wouldn't let me in."

"Yeah, he used to do that to me a lot, too," he said, voice sounding distant. "Lord Draben," he said suddenly, his tone changing.

"He's with the ghost carollers, I think," she said. "He was a Cavalier when he was alive."

"Don't you have any friends?" he asked.

"Not really," she said softly. Something like regret passed across his features. She forced a smile onto her face. "I'm Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir."

"Sir?"

"Well, I don't know your name," she huffed indignantly.

"Regulus," he said quietly. "Regulus Black."

"Are you related to the Headmaster? Phineas, I think," she asked, stepping towards him.

"Because my surname's Black?"

"Well, I just– I read that Wizarding families are all really connected, like– like you're all technically… related somehow, and–"

"Yes, he was an ancestor of mine," Regulus interrupted. "Least favourite Headmaster of Hogwarts, according to my brother," he said.

"What's your brother's name?" she asked, instantly regretting it. "Or– was… I'm sorry," she muttered.

"He's still alive, as far as I know," he said.

"Oh?" Hermione perked up instantly. "Where is he now? Does he visit?" Regulus laughed. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

"Even if he could, he wouldn't have visited." Regulus said, a sad smile crossing his features.

"Why? Was he a Squib?" Regulus frowned at that.

"No. He wasn't a Squib." He took a step backwards, partially into the bookshelf.

"No, I'm sorry!" she said, making an aborted gesture towards him. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," he muttered.

"Then please stay." He nodded slowly, drifting towards her.

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1992_

"How come you disappeared for an entire year?" Hermione asked, seated next to Regulus in the library.

"It's Devil's Night," he said with a smirk. She frowned at him. "Okay, so that's not why I'm here," he quickly conceded. "But I can't tell you why I am."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because you don't need to know everything." She opened her mouth, as if to say something. "You really don't," he said. "Sometimes it's better to not know," he muttered.

"Why do you do that?" Hermione asked; if she were standing, she probably wouldn't have been able to restrain herself from childishly stamping her foot.

"Do what?"

"Say one thing, but the way you say it– It's like you're talking about something else." She glared at him, folding her arms across her chest.

"How old are you? Twelve?" he asked instead of answering. She paused for a moment, dropping her hands to her lap and pouting slightly.

"Yes."

"You act a lot older sometimes." She was a little indignant at the 'sometimes'. "And you always sound older," he said, either not noticing or choosing to ignore her now sullen silence. "You should enjoy your childhood while it lasts," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, jumping at the chance for more information. "Is that why you're here? Is something happening?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about," he said. "At least, not now."

"That's ridiculous, and you know it!" she snapped. "If it's something I'm going to need to worry about in the future, it's something I'm going to need to worry about now!" He smirked.

"That's the kind of attitude I'd expect from a Gryffindor."

"Well, I'm not _in_ Gryffindor," she snapped, feeling slightly hurt. "And the other Houses can be brave, too," she said, her voice dropping to a quieter tone.

"I know," he said softly, his eyes taking on that far away look she was quickly becoming familiar with. "Maybe you should know, then," he said, his entire demeanour changing. "Have you heard of Voldemort?"

"Of course I have!" she said. "But– But I thought you weren't supposed to say his name."

"So you have heard of him," he said, looking pleased. "That saves me some explaining."

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1993_

"This is your brother, isn't it?" She slammed the _Daily Prophet_ onto the table – she always thought of it as _their_ table, despite only having met him at it twice – mouthing an apology towards Madam Pince and quietly sitting down. Regulus glanced at the paper, disinterestedly, and lifted a shoulder.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me your brother's a _felon_?" she hissed, pushing the paper fully into his line of sight. Regulus sighed, following the paper with his eyes.

"I come from a family of questionable morals. What he supposedly did is nothing compared to what some of them have done," he said.

" _Nothing_? How can you say that? He–" She stopped herself, turning to frown at him. After a pause, she continued. "Supposedly? You think he didn't do it?" Regulus shrugged.

"He was an idiot. He certainly had his faults, but betraying his friends was not one of them," Regulus said.

"So who killed them?" she asked. "Their son goes here, you know."

"Of course I know that," Regulus said indignantly. "I'm dead, not oblivious."

"How _did_ you die? I mean– I can ask that, right? It's not rude, is it?" Her face was slowly turning a bright red that travelled all the way down her neck.

"It is rude," he said. Hermione opened her mouth, ready to apologise, but Regulus spoke before she could. "I drowned," he said. Hermione thought there was probably more to that story, but decided she'd pried enough.

"The school's pretty much on lockdown," she said, turning the conversation back to the original topic. Regulus scoffed. "What? He's still dangerous," she said. "He was actually _caught_ killing one of his friends – Peter, I think his name was – and what he did to those Muggles! He–"

"Pettigrew?" Regulus asked.

"Yeah, I– I think so," Hermione stuttered. Regulus seemed to be thinking, a slight frown furrowed his brow. But thinking about what, Hermione couldn't say.

"Wormtail?" he said slowly.

"I don't know what that means."

"It's just… a name I remember my brother using," he muttered, seemingly lost in thought. "I think he was talking about the Pettigrew boy, but… And someone else, too. He used that name."

"I don't understand. What are you talking about?" Hermione asked. Regulus started then, as though he'd briefly forgotten she was there.

"Oh, nothing," he said with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure it's nothing. Pettigrew's dead, anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"Oh." Hermione frowned; it was a little annoying, but she supposed he had no reason to include her in whatever he was thinking. "Okay."

"You don't need to worry about Sirius," he said suddenly, as though it had just occurred to him that she might be afraid. "He'll likely be after the Potter boy."

"I thought you said he didn't kill his friends?" Hermione asked. Regulus shrugged again.

"The Sirius I knew wouldn't have betrayed his friends. His family? Yes. In a heartbeat," Regulus said, and Hermione sensed some residual bitterness there. "But, then again, I didn't know him very well. Not at the end."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione asked, placing her hand on top of his where it rested on the table. She was momentarily surprised to feel solid wood, before she remembered what he was. She withdrew her hand quickly.

"No."

"Alright," she conceded. "But if you ever do–"

"Why?" he asked. She frowned in confusion, trying to work out what he meant. "Why do you care?" he clarified.

"That's what friends are for," she said. "And, if you're not my friend, you're the closest I've got to one."

"We're friends?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

"I think of you as a friend," Hermione said. "I have to go now. Curfew." She stood up slowly. "I'll see you again next year?" she asked hopefully. Regulus nodded. She could feel his questioning eyes following her from the room.

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1994_

Hermione looked around the library, disappointed. They had never agreed to meet before, she'd always just assumed…

"Aren't you joining the festivities in the Great Hall?" Regulus asked, stepping through the door behind her. Hermione spun around, heart racing.

"You scared me!" she said, clutching her book to her chest.

"Sorry." He smirked, seeming more amused than apologetic, and Hermione glared at him, her heart rate slowing back to normal. "But why _are_ you here?" he asked. She frowned, hurt.

"To meet you," she said. She had thought it was obvious, but he was looking at her in confusion.

"Why?"

"I told you last time. You're my friend," she said. "I like spending time with you. And you're only here once a year…" She trailed off, hoping he would answer her unasked question. He nodded slowly.

"I've never had a friend before," he said. "Not one who didn't want something from me," he added, sounding almost as if he were remembering something. His expression cleared quickly, and Hermione decided it was time to change the topic.

"I'm sorry about your brother," she said, wincing. It wasn't exactly the lighter conversation she had been hoping for, but it was the first thing that came to her mind.

"He probably got what he deserved," Regulus said, being careful not to touch her as he moved past her and into the room.

"I thought you said he probably didn't do it?" Hermione asked. "Or you think it's unlikely he did." Regulus shrugged.

"I never really thought about it much," he said. "We lost contact when we were still at school."

"Have– Have you seen him? Since he…" Hermione asked hesitantly. Regulus laughed.

"What? Sirius?" he asked, still amused. "He'd never stick around. Always on to the next great adventure."

"And you don't want to… move on?" She hoped the question wasn't insulting; she'd once asked the Grey Lady why she'd stuck around Hogwarts, and the ghost had convinced the Baron to get Peeves to follow her around the castle for an entire fortnight.

"I still have things to do," he said. "I can't move on until my work is finished."

"Is that an option?" Hermione asked, unable to curb her curiosity. "I heard once someone decided to stay on as a ghost they became one forever."

"It isn't so much a decision," Regulus said slowly. "It's more a subconscious thing. Like… unfinished business."

"And what's your unfinished business?" He smiled slightly, more self-depreciating than anything, and she briefly wondered at what could cause such an expression but he continued on before she could give it much thought.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," he said. "But I can tell you this: You are in a lot more danger than you realise."

"Wha–"

"Do you remember what I told you? A few years ago, now."

"About V–"

"Yes," he interrupted. "Well, there's more to that story."

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1995_

"Someone died, Regulus," she said as soon as she saw him. It had been some time, but she could still feel tears threatening to spill. "He died, and you knew it would happen."

"I didn't know it would happen," he said calmly. It only served to make her angrier.

"Well, you thought it _might_ happen!" she hissed. "And you still didn't do anything."

"I thought there was a _possibility_ ," he said, emphasising the last word. "And I did everything I could to prevent it. I can't be everywhere at once, and it is not my job to protect students."

"That's–" she began.

"You know I'm right," he said, making his way over to their table.

"But–"

"I am not a teacher. I don't even live here," he said. "The students are not my responsibility."

"But–"

"If you want to blame anyone, blame your teachers," he said. "Now, are you going to stop accusing me of being responsible for something that was completely out of my control, or should I just leave?" he asked. She let out a large breath, shoulders slumping.

"What _is_ your job?" she asked quietly, eyes downcast. She was still fighting back tears, though they weren't so much out of anger now but fear. "Why do you only come to Hogwarts once a year? Why this specific day?" These were questions she'd been holding in a long time, and he must have known that, but she was too tired to stop herself from asking them anymore.

"My job?" Regulus said quietly; Hermione thought he probably hadn't intended for her to hear. "I can't tell you my job. Not yet."

"When?" she asked.

"When I'm finished," he said. "But, by then you'd likely already have figured it out." He paused for a moment, taking deep, unneeded breaths. "I have an appointment with Professor Dumbledore. Half nine every year, on the thirtieth of October."

"But… Then why are you still here?" Hermione asked, knowing it sounded a lot ruder than she had intended. He smiled, probably realising the same thing – at least, she hoped he realised.

"Nostalgia." He shrugged. "I missed the place."

"Oh," Hermione said, disappointment colouring her tone. "I thought–" she whispered. "Never mind." She shook her head, taking a seat at their table, and pulling a large book from her bag. She had been angry at him since the last task in the Triwizard Tournament, but she'd still thought he might like it. "I found this, and I–"

"I mostly stay to see you now," Regulus said, watching her reflection in the library windows rather than looking directly at her. "You're my only friend, after all." He turned to face her then, and she couldn't keep the wide grin from her face, or the blush from colouring her cheeks. "So," Regulus said, turning to the book. "What's this about?"

"Oh!" Hermione said, happy to be talking about something less serious for a while. "It's one of my favourites." She turned to the first page, the paper yellowed with age. "My mum used to read it to me when I was younger."

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1996_

"Don't come back next year," Regulus said. He looked tense, nervous, and Hermione wanted to ask about that, but first–

"Why?" she asked. "Why would I miss my last year?"

"Because it won't be safe," he said. "Things are getting worse, Hermione, please understand. There's–"

"But I can't miss my N.E.W.T.s," Hermione said. "I've been looking forward to them since O.W.L.s."

"You–" Regulus stuttered, eyes wide and expression completely shocked. "You what?"

"I've been preparing since the end of exams," she said. "And missing them would make everything after O.W.L.s completely pointless." Regulus' mouth had dropped slightly, and he looked as though he wanted to say something, but she carried on regardless. "Not to mention, I'd _never_ get a decent–"

"Are you _insane?"_ he finally asked. "You do realise you could _die_?"

"If what you say is true," she said slowly. "Then I wouldn't be any safer at home, would I?"

"But they're actually coming into Hogwarts!" he tried to reason. "You'd be safer at home. Or, better yet, if you went into hiding–"

"I am _not_ doing that," she snapped. "I want to be able to help, and I can't do that if I'm running." An odd expression crossed his face. "What?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing. It's just… You reminded me of someone, that's all," he said, his tone quiet. He nodded, then. "I know I won't be able to change you're mind. You're far too stubborn for that." She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued speaking before she could get the words out. "And I can't stay long enough today to even begin to try."

"You're leaving now?" Hermione asked, her heart sinking as she was filled with disappointment. He nodded.

"I have to. Things are moving a lot faster now," Regulus said apologetically. "Just– Just promise me that you'll be careful. That you'll stay safe." She nodded, smiling sadly.

"I will. I'll see you next year?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course."

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1997_

He froze when he saw her, staring in shock. His mouth opened, and she thought he might be trying to form words despite clearly not knowing what to say.

"Hello, Regulus." She smiled sadly, watching him from across the room. He took a deep breath, and she could see definite traces of anger clouding his featured.

"You said you'd be careful," he said through gritted teeth. "You _promised_."

"I know," she said softly. "I'm sorry. It's not like I wanted to– to–"

"To _die_?" he snapped, stepping closer to her. She'd never seen him so angry before, and it would have frightened her if she hadn't known there was no way he would act upon it.

"Yes," she said. "I didn't want to die."

"But why are you still here?" Regulus asked. His words hurt more than anything else could have – could he physically hurt her now? She didn't think so, but she was still pretty new to this – and she flinched back as if she'd been slapped.

"Don't you know?" Hermione asked. Regulus shook his head.

"Why didn't you move on?" Hermione took a deep breath – she still wasn't used to not needing to breathe, and found herself doing so much more than the other ghosts, but she was getting better.

"Take me with you," she said.

"What?"

" _Please_. I can be useful, I can–"

"It's dangerous," he interrupted.

"I'm already dead," she snapped. "What more could possibly happen?"

"You don't know what you're asking," he said.

"Please," she whispered. Regulus just shook his head, turned and walked away. "Please?" she called after him. He stopped, and she felt hope building.

"You know I can't," he said calmly, not even turning to face her. She had been wrong before; this was the worst thing he could possibly do to her.

"But what am I supposed to do?" she asked.

"What we all have to do," he said. He turned to face her then, and she wished he hadn't, his expression too blank. "Find a purpose."

.oOo.

 _30th October, 1998_

She wanders the halls aimlessly. There's less to do now the war's over, and she hates herself for missing the excitement – the _purpose_ – it had brought her. She hasn't been back to the library in almost a year, maybe longer; she'd stopped keeping track of the days now.

"You weren't in the library," Regulus says from behind her. She turns slowly.

"I didn't think you would come."

"Why not?" he asks, tipping his head slightly. It's only then that she realises how young he looks – now that she can see him as he looked alive. They appear almost the same age now, and will until they move on. She shrugs.

"You told me to find my purpose," she says, almost an answer but not quite.

"And did you?"

"For a while." They fall into silence then, somehow both conformable in its familiarity and awkward in these new circumstances. "What about you?" Hermione asks. "Did you finish your work?"

"Yes," Regulus says. "I could probably tell you about it now. If you wanted." He pauses for a moment; she's not sure if he's waiting for a response or simply thinking. "I suppose it's not particularly interesting, now, though." She can feel a small smile beginning to turn up the corners of her lips.

"Maybe I should get to decide that?" she asks. He grins widely, nodding. "Do you want to go to the library?"

"I was thinking–" He stops himself, and she prepares herself for the disappointment. He looks nervous, though, and she can't really remember seeing the expression on his face. Then again, a lot of her memories of him are clouded by the last time they met. "I was thinking, maybe we could– could go somewhere else?" he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers before falling quickly back to the floor. "Outside the castle. Only if you wanted to, of course." He adds the last part hurriedly, and she realises that he's afraid of her reaction. Afraid that she will turn him down.

There's a small, vindictive part of her that wants to, but she knows acting so petty won't help either of them. And she's not sure he'd come back; now that he's finished his work, he may be moving on.

She nods, reaching out towards him, taking his hand for the first time.


	14. Shaken, Not Stirred - JamesBondAU

_[summary]_ _– Teddy/James II [James Bond!AU] "Mister Bond," P said, nodding as Teddy entered the room. He still wasn't used to the name — still didn't react quite fast enough when someone referred to him as such — but he was getting better. He had to._

 **A/N** – Written for Round Seven of QL. I had to write for the characters Teddy Lupin and James Sirius Potter (H.M.S Remix, I think it was) with the optional prompts: [word] Bond, [quote] 'Just have to have a little faith.' – Michael Scofield, _Prison Break_.

And thank you to Rose [RawMateriel] for Beta'ing.

* * *

 _Just have a little faith_

.oOo.

"Mister Bond," P said, nodding as Teddy entered the room. He still wasn't used to the name — still didn't react quite fast enough when someone referred to him as such — but he was getting better. He had to.

"Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Take a seat," P said, gesturing to the empty chair opposite him. Teddy sat quickly. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you, sir," Teddy said. Harry nodded slowly, regarding Teddy with a calculating stare for a moment.

"Very well," he said quietly, still not taking his eyes from Teddy. "On to your task." P pulled out a folder from the top desk draw. "You will need to locate these people. Memorise their faces." He slid the folder across the table, watching Teddy carefully as he flicked through it. "Their names will likely have changed," he said when Teddy had finished. "And, if not, then they likely aren't worth our time."

"What did they do?" Teddy asked. P remained silent long enough for Teddy to think that he wasn't going to answer — long enough for Teddy to regret having asked the question in the first place — before he eventually spoke.

"They remained loyal, even after the defeat of their… _Lord_ , as they liked to call him." The expression on P's face showed how little he thought of that.

"That was at least twenty years ago!" Teddy said before he could stop himself.

"Yes." P spoke slowly. "Only a few remain now," he said. "But they've started recruiting once more."

"And I need to—" Teddy trailed off.

"Stop them."

"In what way?" Teddy asked hesitantly.

"Whatever it takes."

.oOo.

Teddy sat at the bar, looking around the crowded room. He didn't know who he was supposed to meet — he didn't even know what she looked like — but P had said he would be sought out. He just had to—

"Can I get you anything?"

"Uh, yes," Teddy said, trying to think. "A dry martini… three measures of Gordon's… one of vodka… half a measure of Kina Lillet," he said slowly. "Shaken, not stirred," he added, the phrase so obvious he knew he wouldn't have forgotten had he not been so nervous.

"That's quite the drink," the bartender said.

"Yeah." Teddy nodded, really hoping he wouldn't be forced to actually drink it.

"Mister Bond, I presume?" Teddy turned quickly, seeing a man standing behind him. He held up his hands, a smirk twisting his features. "You are, aren't you? I was sent to meet you."

"Oh. Yeah, that's me. Bond. James Bond," Teddy stuttered.

"I have to admit," the man said, taking the empty seat beside him. "I thought you'd be cooler." Teddy frowned, a little offended, but before he could speak the bartender returned with his drink.

"I added a slice of lemon peel," the bartender said. Teddy nodded his thanks.

"You drink martinis, do you?" he asked, leaning closer than Teddy felt was strictly necessary.

"Yeah," Teddy said, feeling a little defiant, and took a large swallow of the drink. "Is that a problem?" he asked, trying desperately not to choke. He was not a big drinker.

"No, no problem." He seemed amused.

"What's your name, anyway?" Teddy finally asked.

"James," he said. Teddy waited, but he didn't elaborate.

.oOo.

"So… do you have a plan?" James asked.

"Of course," Teddy said, looking around. "We should, um… I have a car."

"Oh?" James looked disinterested, clearly not expecting much. Teddy felt a need to change that, but he couldn't say why.

"Yeah, it's just over—"

"Oh, cool!" James interrupted, running over to the black BMW parked across the road.

"Yeah, very… shiny," Teddy said, opening the door of a battered Ford Anglia. James turned slowly.

"You– This is your car?" he asked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," Teddy said, climbing in. James sighed, but pulled on the handle of the passenger side door. "Oh, sorry!" Teddy leant over and unlocked the door from the inside. "It sticks."

"Of course it does."

.oOo.

Teddy glanced over at James quickly, before returning his eyes to the road, his hands firmly in the ten and two position.

"Can we at least listen to some music?" James asked, sounding bored.

"I don't have any CDs," Teddy said.

"CDs? Don't you have an AUX cord?" James asked, but continued before Teddy could answer. "No. Of course you don't. I bet you don't even have a gun."

"I have a–" The rear window shattered, glass covering the back seats. Teddy chanced a brief glance behind, and immediately wished he hadn't.

" _Where is the gun?"_ James yelled over the noise.

"In the glove box!" Teddy gripped the steering wheel harder, wide eyes staring at the road ahead. He could hear James rummaging through the compartment.

"I swear, Bond, if it's in this lock box…"

"Safety–" Teddy slammed on the breaks "–first." The two cars behind them, unable to stop in time, drove straight into oncoming traffic.

There was silence in the car for a moment, and the sirens and screams from outside seemed a long way away.

"Not bad," James said. "Probably the smartest thing you've done all day."

"Well, I'm not a criminal," Teddy said, finally turning to look at him.

"What?" James asked, frowning in confusion.

"Red light."

.oOo.

"Look," James said, pulling a thin piece of glass from the back of Teddy's hand. "I don't mean to insult you or anything, but have you considered a different career?"

"Why?" Teddy asked, face turned away so he didn't have to see what James was doing.

.oOo.

The door crashed open, wood splinters flying across the room. Teddy awoke with a start, looking around the room in panic, momentarily forgetting where he was.

A bullet embedding itself in the wall right beside his head brought him quickly back to reality.

"You need to run, you moron!" James yelled, grabbing his wrist and dragging him from bed towards the window.

Teddy risked one last glance back. Several figures in dark clothing, hoods covering their faces, created rather androgynous figures as they stood in the doorway. Only their left forearms were visible, clearly showing the tattoo they all shared. One he clearly remembered from the folder.

"Wait! I need to–"

"Not now, Teddy!" James yelled. "There's too many of them! You'll die."

He allowed James to pull him from the room, and didn't object to the theft of a car. He felt dizzy, nauseous, and the loud ringing in his ears created a barrier between himself and reality.

.oOo.

"What?" James snapped, turning to glare at Teddy. Teddy didn't bother to mention that he should keep his eyes on the road. "You've been quiet since the hotel. What's wrong?"

"We almost died," Teddy said. "Surely that's reason enough to be a little shaken up?"

"Isn't that part of your job description?" James asked.

"You know my name," Teddy said instead of answering.

"Of course I do, you idiot. You told me."

"You know my _real_ name," Teddy said. His eyes fell down to James' arm, trying to get a look at his left forearm. He was wearing long sleeves.

"Oh." James didn't even bother to pretend not to know what Teddy was talking about, and for that he was thankful.

"Here's fine," Teddy said.

"What?"

"Here's fine. I can walk," Teddy clarified, hand already on the door handle. "I'll find my own way back."

"You're not even wearing any shoes!"

"I'll make do."

.oOo.

Teddy trudged over to the same bar he'd met James at. The return journey had been mostly uneventful without James. Teddy was not bad at his job, despite what the other man might have believed. His skills lay with secrecy, and that was a little hard to achieve with the enemy able to track your every move.

"I can make you your drink, if you like?" the bartender asked.

"My what?"

"Your drink. People seem to like it." He nodded to a booth in the far corner. "He ordered one not five minutes ago." Teddy looked over, the motion more of a reflex than an actual show of interest.

His eyes met James'.

The man pushed himself slowly to his feet, walking over with a lot more confidence than Teddy felt.

"I suppose you're here to kill me," Teddy said as soon as James was within earshot.

"On the contrary, Teddy," James said. "I've come to warn you."

"Warn me?" Teddy asked incredulously. "Warn me about what? That you happen to be working for the very organisation I'm trying to help bring down? That–"

"You should leave." Teddy remained silent, staring at James blankly. "Leave this job. It's not something anyone should do."

"Someone has to."

"Do they?" James asked.

"Yes. Because there are always people like you." James flinched, but didn't back down.

"And I was forced into this because of people like _you,_ " James said. "This is all I've ever known. But you can do–"

James staggered forwards, eyes wide and gasping for breath. He fell to his knees, and from this angle Teddy could see the blood covering his back. The knife may have been small but, with such a well-aimed throw, had done all the damage of a sword.

A figure, dressed all in black, turned from the scene.

.oOo.

" _Mister Potter," The Woman said, watching James with cold eyes, a wry twist to the corner of her mouth. "We have a task for you." Her voice was oily. She sounded like the kind of person you'd usually avoid, but here James was: willingly working for her._

" _And you won't mind going against your father's organisation?" The Man drawled, stepping out of the shadows. The symbols on both their arms were clearly visible._

" _Not at all."_

" _Good," The Man said, smirking._

" _You've provided us with some excellent information," The Woman said. "But now we think it's time for you to go out into the field, as it were."_

" _We're going to make an_ exchange _," The Man drawled. "You will take the place of a Ms Victoire Weasley."_

" _I'm guessing she's going to be removed?" James asked._

" _Naturally," The Woman said. The Man didn't look pleased at being interrupted._

" _Her codename: Miss Moneypenny," The Man said, as though nothing else had been said._

" _You are to gain Edward Lupin's confidence," The Woman continued. "He will say the phrase 'shaken, not stirred,' and that is your signal to introduce yourself."_

" _Make it believable," The Man said. "_ Befriend _him. Do whatever it takes. But remember, your job is to bring him here."_

" _He will give you the name James Bond," The Woman said. "The codename given to the highest ranked spy in the country."_

" _Failure will not be tolerated."_


	15. Turn to Dust - VoldemortWinsAU

_[summary] James/Regulus [VoldemortWins!AU] A week after Voldemort rises to power, and everything is far from what anyone expected._

 **A/N** — Written for round 8 of QL — what would life be like a week after Voldemort rises to power? — with the optional prompts [word] allegiance, [word] moonlight, and [song] Centuries by Fall Out Boy.

And thank you to firefly for beta'ing.

* * *

 _And this is for tonight_

 _I thought that you would feel_

 _I never meant for you to fix yourself_

.oOo.

They sat huddled around a table in the mostly-empty library, the room only illuminated by the light of their wands. Few dared to venture freely around the castle anymore; only the brave and the stupid. Not even the Slytherins were safe from his wrath.

James spread the map out on the table, and everyone leant closer.

"Is there really any point in this?" Alice asked. She was standing to the back of the group, arms folded across her chest and eyes trained on her feet. "We've already lost."

"Then why are you here?" Sirius asked. She opened and closed her mouth uselessly a few times, then shrugged.

"Because I didn't want to be alone," she said. By the sound of it, she'd already given up and, looking around the table, James could just see a group of dejected faces, eyes downcast, who didn't know what else they could do.

"It's only been a week," he said. "There's still–"

"Dumbledore's dead," Peter said. It was the first time James could remember him speaking in a long time, actually, and he wondered what that said about him for not noticing. Then again, there hadn't been much to say. "You-Know-Who has the Ministry completely under his control. What good are we gonna be? We're still at school."

"We'd be better off running," Alice whispered.

"Seriously, why are you here?" Sirius snapped, turning to glare at the girl.

"They'd find us. We can't hide forever," James said, trying to defuse the situation but was ignored.

"I told you. I'm the only one left," she said slowly. "I didn't want to spend another night alone in the dorms." Marlene pulled her into a one armed hug.

"You can stay with us," she said, but Alice shook her head.

"They've started checking." James nodded.

"We'll need to get back soon—" he turned to the map "—before they…" he trailed off, slowly turning to face the door.

A group of Slytherins stood watching them and, before James could say anything, all wands were pointed in their direction.

"If we were going to attack you, we would have by now," a familiar voice snapped.

"Regulus?" Sirius asked, he took a step forwards but didn't lower his wand. "What are you doing here?"

"I– I would f–feel a lot more comfortable, if– if you lowered your wands," a blonde girl stuttered. She was at least a head shorter than all the others, and her eyes kept darting around the room as though she were waiting for an attack. Normally, James would brush it off as unnecessary nerves, but given the situation, her fear was understandable.

"Lower your wands," he said. "Regulus is right."

"Since when are you on a first name basis with my brother?" Sirius asked but lowered his wand none-the-less.

"You're going to Filch's old office, right?" Regulus asked. "Where they're keeping some of the Mu– Muggleborns."

"They're Mudbloods," a boy to Regulus' left snapped — James thought his name might have been Dolohov, but he wasn't entirely sure — but was quickly quietened by his housemates.

"Why do you care?" Frank asked, speaking for the first time that evening.

"Because they're not just taking Muggleborns," the girl from before said. James nodded.

"We don't have time to go through the plan now," he said, folding the map. "We'll meet outside the Hufflepuff Common room."

"What if we get split after?" Marlene asked.

"Go to the Transfiguration Classroom. The one with the Boggart. No one'll be there."

"I can see why," someone muttered, but James chose to ignore it.

James pulled Regulus to the side as everyone was trudging from the room.

"You don't have to do this," James whispered. Regulus shrugged off his grip, about to object. "No, I'm serious, Regs. You're a Pureblood in Slytherin; this is such an unnecessary risk."

"I'm not gonna sit back and do nothing," Regulus said, making no attempt to keep his voice down.

"You're underage, you–"

"And I don't need you trying to protect me, or save me from myself," Regulus said. "You taught me to stand up for what I believe in. Or to fight against what I believe is wrong."

James watched him go, waiting until he was the last in the room before casting a quick _Nox_ and heading into the dark corridors of the castle.

.oOo.

" _I'm not looking for someone who can save me._

 _Life rafts might keep you afloat, but they rarely get you anywhere, and I've got places I wanna go."_

Andrea Gibson

.oOo.

James pushed open the door to the unused Transfiguration classroom slowly, dreading what he'd find inside. It had been a bad idea — they'd known that from the start — but as soon as he opened that door, he'd see how monumentally stupid they had been to think they even stood a chance.

Five.

Six, including him, remained, sitting as far from each other as possible. He supposed most of them had carried the same hope as him — that they wouldn't make it — but were instead left with the grief and guilt over lost friends.

He didn't bother to light his wand — no one else had — and instead relied solely on the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window.

"Some allegiance, huh?" a girl asked; she sat huddled in the corner, alone. James knew she was in Ravenclaw but couldn't remember anything else about her. He supposed it didn't really matter, not anymore, and if it did, he couldn't bring himself to care. "They probably only let us go as some kind of sick joke."

James looked at each of the Slytherins in turn, stepping closer to the dark haired boy with his head in his arms, relief flooding through him. He reached out, almost touching him, when the boy sat up.

Crouch.

James recoiled quickly.

"I just want to know one thing," he croaked. "Did any of you know?" he asked, looking around the room desperately. "Did any of you know what he was going to do?"

He was only met with silence.

.oOo.

 _Some legends are told_

 _Some turn to dust or to gold_


	16. The Sea is Calling - PirateAU

_[summary] — Frank/Alice [Pirate(ish)!AU] His mother's warm hand pushes his sweaty hair from his eyes, resting gently on his forehead. But he can hear the sea calling._

 **A/N** — This is written for Dean [deant33].

The lyrics are from the song The Sea is Calling by The Temper Trap.

And thank you Liza and FF for beta'ing.

[2033 words]

* * *

 _Tucked in the corner of Earth_

 _Naked in light we are born_

.oOo.

His mother's warm hand pushes his sweaty hair from his eyes, resting gently on his forehead.

"Isn't there something else we can do?" he hears her ask, but the words sound distant, muffled, as though she is speaking through layers of fabric. Distantly, he knows he should be scared, but everything is blurry and he's too cold; he just wants to sleep.

"Just try to keep his temperature down," another voice says. "There's not much else we can do for him right now."

"Mum?" Frank whispers, reaching out for her, his fingers brushing uselessly against her wrist. "Mum, I'm tired," he croaks, his forehead furrowing.

"Try to drink this first," she says. Frank screws his eyes shut, and turns his head into the damp pillow.

"I'm tired," he groans.

"I know." She lifts his head slightly and holds a straw to his lips. Frank manages a few small swallows before he's turning his face away once more. He hears a faint rustle as she leans over and places the glass on the bedside table, and then she returns to his line of sight.

His eyes can't focus properly, and so she's a little hazy, and he closes his eyes again with a groan.

"It's okay," she whispers, her hand back to running through his hair. "I'm here. Everything's going to be okay."

"Can I have a story?" he asks, his mouth barely moving and his voice so quiet for a moment he thinks she hasn't heard. "Mum," he begins, but a wet cough forces him to stop.

She rubs his back until it passes, and brings the straw to his lips once more. When he's taken a few swallows, she sets the glass to the side.

Her voice is low and raspy, not pretty but it fills him with comfort as she sings:

" _At night when it's quiet and the waves come rolling in."_

.oOo.

 _The gentle rocking brings him to consciousness, and he opens his eyes slowly._

 _He is faced with a girl, close in age to himself, wearing leather and stripes and a hat that is several sizes too large for her head. Her blonde hair falls in messy strands around her round face, and her smile is the kindest he has ever seen._

" _Hello," she says, stepping back so that he can sit up. "I'm Alice."_

" _Frank," he says. "Where am I?"_

" _My ship," she says happily. "The Galleon." He stands. She is nearly a head taller than him, but she's also wearing a pair of boots — again, a few sizes too big — that are adding a few inches to her height. "D'you want to look around?" she asks. "But you can only stay a little while. You're not supposed to be here yet."_

 _He's confused, but smiles and nods. Alice takes his hand and pulls him to his feet, leading him above deck, her boots thud loudly on the deck with each step. Her hand is cold._

 _As soon as they're above deck, he rushes to the railing, bracing his hands shoulder width apart, and leans over the edge. The ocean stretches as far as the eye can see, as the breeze ruffles his hair._

 _He doesn't know how long he stands there, just taking it all in, but Alice is pulling at his arm before he is ready._

" _You have to go now," she says with a sad smile. "You're not meant to be here yet."_

 _She leads him back below deck, pushing him gently until he is lying in one of the bunks. He closes his eyes, and drifts off to the gentle swaying of the ship._

.oOo.

He opens his eyes, and immediately regrets the decision. The lights are too bright, the walls too white, and there are too many people bustling about. He just wants to sleep.

"Frank," his mother whispers, and he can hear the despair clear in her voice. "You're awake."

"Yeah," he croaks, the sound more an exhalation than a word. His eyes fall closed again, and he hears his mother make a small sound of protest, but he doesn't open his eyes.

The noises around him are making him feel worse than he already does; they're not particularly loud — there's a strange sort of hush to the room that in itself is unnerving — but he has a headache and his ears seem to be more sensitive than usual.

"He should rest," he hears a stranger say, and he feels his mother's fingers comb through his hair. He finds comfort in the gesture, bringing with it memories of his childhood, and he leans into her touch.

"Of course, of course," she says, but Frank knows she is disappointed.

"Mum?" he asks, voice faint. He coughs, the sound dry, and it hurts his throat. "Mum," he tries again. He cracks an eye open slightly, just barely letting in a narrow strip of light. It's not enough to see her face, but he can hear the smile in her voice as she says:

"Of course." And, despite it being years since she had last sung him to sleep, he knows she has understood. And, as his senses dull and sleep draws him closer, he hears the beginnings of his song.

" _The merchant ship's light paints the dark as we sing hymns."_

.oOo.

 _He isn't really surprised when he wakes up to the rocking of the ocean once more. It has been years since he was last on this ship — and it was only the one time, really — but he remembers it so vividly that it is like no time at all has passed._

 _Stretching, he distantly registers that the bunk in smaller — or, rather, that he is bigger. He opens his eyes, blinking slowly, and takes in the room. It is much the same as his last visit; rows of beds attached to the walls, and not many personal effects. It's a little darker than he remembers, though, but he supposed he hadn't lingered below deck for long._

 _The sound of heavy boots on the stairs draws his attention, and he watches as she draws nearer. She is older now, but he is too, and her hat and boots almost fit her perfectly._

" _You're still early," she says, and her words sound a little harsh, but she accompanies them with a smile, a dimple forming in her right cheek, and he finds himself smiling in return._

" _Sorry," he says. "I don't really know_ when _I'm supposed to be here."_

" _No one does." She takes his hand and pulls him to his feet._

" _Why do I come here?" he asks as they ascend the stairs. It's a tighter fit than last time, too, and he would feel vaguely claustrophobic if not for her presence and the gentle rocking of the sea. "Do other people come here, too?"_

" _You need to be more careful," she says, not really answering his question, but he lets it pass. "And it looks different for everyone, I think."_

" _What does? The Galleon?"_

" _Yeah." She turns to smile at him, the sun creating a halo around her head. "I think so, anyway. It's always been this for me, but other people have to go somewhere, too." She pauses for a moment. "Right?" she asks, frowning. He finds himself nodding, despite not really understanding what she's talking about._

" _Of course," he says, giving her a reassuring smile. She releases a soft sigh and smiles in return._

" _That's good. I'd hate for it to just be this," she says, and he realises that she is just as confused as he is._

" _But how do you know I'm not supposed to be here yet?" he asks._

" _You don't look quite real," she says. "Sort of faded. Like a piece of paper held up to the sun."_

" _Not like a ghost?" he asks._

" _No." She smiles at him, and pulls him towards the bow of the ship. "But I think that might be the problem." She shakes her head, her hair falling into her face. She brushes it away, tucking a few strands underneath her hat. "You can only stay for a little while," she says, abruptly changing topic._

 _Like last time?" he asks. She nods in response, and steps back, watching as he walks slowly down the length of the ship, trailing the tops of his fingers along the worn wood. It only feels like a few minutes later when she starts to lead him back below deck._

.oOo.

He hasn't had this job for very long, but he finds that he is good at it. He's not massively athletic, and he would never have described himself as brave before, but he likes that he is helping people. That brings a certain level of comfort that he hadn't achieved since his mother's passing.

And, he supposes, that is why this happens now.

He is running, chasing the suspect, focussing more on his destination than his surroundings, and that is his biggest mistake. He trips, and can't catch himself in time; he falls.

Frank hits the water hard enough that he draws in a large gulp of air, a natural reflex, and his lungs are filling with dirty water before he's even registered that his head is now below the surface. He's coughing and choking and struggling, trying to push himself to the surface, but something that feels a lot like wire has wrapped around his ankle and he can't move. It digs into his flesh, and the pain is enough that he thinks it must have torn through skin.

He tries to untangle himself from it, but his fingers are numb enough that he struggles to grip the wire, and he is fast losing consciousness. As his vision fades, he imagines hears the words to an old song, sung in his mother's low voice:

" _To the one who is great, whom but words cannot be seen_

 _When all left is love, there is no in between."_

.oOo.

 _He gasps, sitting up quickly, and his head hits the surface above him. It is another bed, and, looking around, he sees that he is back on the ship. Alice is sitting in the bunk opposite, watching him patently._

" _I'm … not dead?" he asks. His clothes are dry, but he doesn't know how long he's been here. Maybe—_

 _She shakes her head, a sad smile on her face._

" _You're on time for once," she says. "I'm sorry."_

 _He can hear movement above deck, heavy footfalls and loud voices. He doesn't remember seeing anyone other than Alice here before, and he wonders who these people might be. So, he asks._

" _You didn't think I was here all alone, did you?" She laughs, pulling him to his feet. "What sort of captain would I be if I didn't have a crew?"_

" _What sort of captain does a child make?" he asks. She pouts a little, but he can tell that she isn't offended, that she's joking._

" _I wasn't ready," she says. "You were early." She smiles again, pulling him over to the stairs. "But you're on time now. And we're all ready." She leads him up the stairs, and the difference is astounding._

 _Once, the ship had been calm, a sanctuary. A dream that he'd had as a child, and returned to as a young adult. Now, though, bubbling with activity … it feels like home._

.oOo.

 _Oh, can you hear the sea calling?_

 _Calling us into the world_


	17. Reconnecting - TeacherAU

_[summary] — Parvati/Lavender [Teacher!AU] Her eye is caught by the figure seated at the far end of the table. She can't see much of the woman; a dark cloak covers most of her features, the hood pulled down almost to her chin and its shadow obscuring any of her face that might still have been visible._

 **A/N** — This is written for Laura [thingstogoandplacestodo].

Beta'd by Liza and Carmen.

[1585 words]

* * *

Parvati sits down next to Neville at the head table. Students are still filing into the Great Hall, all excitedly talking about their summers, and she turns to one of her oldest friends with the intent on doing much the same. Her eye is caught, however, by the figure seated at the far end of the table.

She can't see much of the woman; a dark cloak covers most of her features, the hood pulled down almost to her chin and its shadow obscuring any of her face that might still have been visible. The only part of her that Parvati can see are her hands. Her nails are manicured and well taken care of, but the skin of her hands is a mess of scars, and her fingers bend a little strangely, as though they had been broken but never healed properly.

She leans over to Neville, and whispers:

"Who do you think that is?" He shakes his head, a small frown twisting down the corners of his mouth.

"No idea," he says, also keeping his voice low. He leans closer. "Trelawney left at the end of last year." Neither of them had been able to get into the habit of referring to their old teachers by first name. "Maybe she's her replacement?" Parvati nods slowly, thinking over his theory.

"I suppose," she says, her eyes drawing back to the woman. "I just thought … I don't know, really."

"You thought they'd bring Firenze back?" he says with a smirk, but his eyes are alight with amusement, which softens the gesture.

"You can't tell me you _wouldn't_ want to see him back here," she says. "He was an asset to the school. He was —"

"Always walking around shirtless?" Neville teases. "Give her a chance," he says, gesturing to the woman. "She just might surprise you." Parvati nods again, falling silent as the First Years stop in front of the head table.

She zones out as their names are called, focussing instead on the strange woman. Lavender claps lightly after each sorting, and Parvati can't decide if it's because she doesn't wish to make much noise or because her scars still pain her.

Her attention is only drawn away from the woman when McGonagall clears her throat, and the usual start of term announcements are made.

"And," McGonagall says, drawing to the end of her speech, "we are pleased to welcome our new Divination teacher, Professor Brown."

Parvati's heart skips a beat, but she claps along with everyone else. It's a common name, she reminds herself, strained smile taking up residence on her face. She could be anyone.

She risks another glance at the woman; she remains seated, sitting stoically, and doesn't react to either the introduction or applause.

"Is that …?" Neville whispers, leaning over so that his lips are pressed to her ear.

"It can't be," she says, trusting that the noise in the Great Hall will drown out her words. "She died. It has to be a coincidence." Neville nods his agreement, though she can see on his face that he his just as sceptical as she is.

.oOo.

She hasn't seen the woman — Professor Brown — since the feast, so hasn't been able to ascertain her identity. She can't be Lavender, Parvati's almost sure on that. Though there is some small part that clings to the hope that, even after all these years, Lavender might still be found. There hadn't been a body, after all.

Parvati pushes open the door to the staff room carefully, trying her best to slip in unnoticed. She was a little late, but maybe if she could —

"Nice of you to join us," McGonagall says, and Parvati looks up to see all but one occupant of the room staring at her.

"Sorry, Pr— Minerva," she says, hurriedly taking the empty seat beside Neville. "Won't happen again." McGonagall purses her lips, and Parvati knows she doesn't believe her, but continues on regardless.

Parvati's attention is drawn to the woman; she has removed her cloak this time, and Parvati can see that the scars extend past her hands, twisting and overlapping up her arms and disappearing under her sleeves. They start up again at the neckline of her shirt, and the must meet somewhere in the middle, and map their way onto her face.

Her features look like they might have been beautiful once, but now the scars pull the corners of her lip down and alter the shape of her nose. One cuts across her right eye, leaving her iris a milky white, and twists down her cheek to join the rest of her scars in the webs they create across her body. But her remaining eye stands out in stark contrast the the rest of her features, and it's so familiar Parvati can feel it tugging at her chest, because she _knows_ that eye.

The expression is different — the way she glances warily at everyone in the room, glaring at anyone who dares approach; the way she hunches in on herself — but she's still recognisably _Lavender_.

And she can't take it anymore. She's too hot and she can't get enough air, the room is spinning and she has to get out of there.

.oOo.

She paces the corridor below the Divination Classroom; the last class had finished nearly twenty minutes ago, and she'd been here ever since, debating on whether or not she should go up. Lavender must still be up there — Parvati hasn't seen her leave, at least, and she doesn't think there's anywhere else she could have gone — but perhaps there was a reason Parvati hadn't seen her since the staff meeting?

Taking a deep breath, Parvati steels herself and begins to climb the ladder. The trap door is still open, so she slips silently into the classroom. It looks much the same as Trelawny had kept it, though the styling is more simplistic now, and she has forgone Trelawny's usual perfumed fire.

Parvati stills when she feels someone watching her, and turns slowly to see Lavender. She doesn't look best pleased, a frown evident on her ruined features and her eyes are narrowed.

"What do you want?" she snaps, and even her voice is different, lower and rougher.

"I just — I — I miss you, Lav," she whispers, her breathing fast. She has never been afraid of a friend before. "I wanted to —"

"Get out," Lavender hisses, rising slowly from her chair. She looks like a predator; like a wolf hunting down her prey. And that realisation — _how had she not noticed before?_ — is enough that she is nodding, backing away towards the door, before she's fully registered what's going on.

.oOo.

She's just readjusting a student's telescope for the third time in half an hour — the boy was definitely doing this on purpose, but he was giving her something to do — when she catches sight of a cloaked figure standing by the door. Parvati briefly considers ignoring her until class is over, but knows that Lavender's presence will be distracting her the entire time.

"That's Professor Brown, isn't it?" the boy asks her. "Is it true that she's a Dementor?"

"What? Of course not!" Parvati snaps. "Where did you hear that?"

"Everyone's saying it," the boy says, not chastised in the slightest. "Either that, or she's a Dementor's kid."

"Well, she isn't," Parvati says firmly. "And you shouldn't be talking about your teachers like that." Looking around, she sees that every student's attention is on Lavender, despite the woman trying to look inconspicuous. "That's enough for tonight," she calls, drawing their attention to herself. "Class dismissed."

"Don't we still have —" someone starts, but is quickly cut off by a hiss of:

"Shut up!"

The students file out quickly — Parvati thinks they might be a little wary of her changing her mind — and, once they are gone, Lavender steps forward slowly. Her hand hesitates at her hood, but she only falters slightly before she pulls it down. The scars run up into her hairline, leaving bald patches where it doesn't grow anymore, but it is the fear in her eye which draws Parvati's attention.

"So," Parvati says, hating seeing her friend so scared. "Spill the beans, then." Her voice cracks. "What've you been up to that past ten years?"

"I — Parvati, I — I wanted to come back," she whispers, and tears are running unchecked down her cheeks, but Parvati can feel them running down her own, too. "I was scared. I was hurt, and I —"

"We would have helped you!" Parvati yells. " _I_ would have helped you," she whispers.

"I — I know, but I — I didn't want to be a burden," Lavender whispers, eyes downcast.

"You wouldn't —"

"No, Parvati. After Greyback — I needed to come to terms with this myself, first."

"And have you?" Parvati whispers, finally catching Lavender's eye. Lavender just laughs, but it's not a happy sound.

"Have I? Has anyone?" she asks, and Parvati really wants to hug her, but she isn't sure the gesture would be appreciated. "But I — I had to come back. I couldn't keep living like that." Lavender scoffs. "I needed the money."

"It's okay to ask for help, you know," Parvati says, stepping closer.

"I know." And it is the first real smile Lavender has given since her return and, in one fluid movement, she has pulled Lavender into her arms.


	18. Test Run - TimeTravelAU

_[summary] Regulus was out of bed, stumbling as his sheets caught around his legs, and over to the window before he could think about it. He could smell fire, and when he pulled back his curtain a little, thick plumes of smoke could be seen in the field behind his house._

[2173 words]

* * *

Regulus rolled over for what must have been the tenth time in the last hour. His window was open, but there was no breeze, and the air was humid, leaving him sticky and hot and just praying for sleep.

He opened his eyes once again, squinting blearily at the alarm clock; the red digital numbers said it was already past two-thirty, and he would need to be up at six. The last digit flicked over. Two thirty-eight.

With a sigh, Regulus rolled over once more, hoping that facing away from the clock would allow him to focus on something else, and closed his eyes. He had nearly drifted off to sleep when a sudden gust of wind had him sitting up straight, heart racing. The sound that followed, like rumbling thunder directly overhead, shook the entire house.

Regulus was out of bed, stumbling as his sheets caught around his legs, and over to the window before he could think about it. He could smell fire, and when he pulled back his curtain a little, thick plumes of smoke could be seen in the field behind his house. He leant out the window, hoping to get a better look, and caught some of his neighbours doing the same, while a few had already ventured outside.

"You missed it!" one of his neighbours called from the street, craning her neck to look up at Regulus. He had no idea who she was — he could only remember one neighbours name, and he wasn't overly close to the woman.

"Missed what?" he asked.

"The spaceship," she said, pointing towards the field. "It crashed over there."

"Right, okay." Regulus nodded, not believing a word. "Well, I'm just going to —" He gestured back into his room, not caring what she thought he meant, and not bothering to finish his sentence.

He climbed back into bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

.oOo.

He woke slowly, yawning widely and stretching with a groan. Regulus lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, before a frown took over his features. Slowly, he turned his head, searching for the digital display of his alarm clock. It was blank.

Sitting up quickly, he grabbed his phone from the beside table, fumbling a little in unlocking it. Dead. Despite being on charge the entire night. He rolled from bed and raced down the stairs, stopping in front of the wall clock in the living room. Nine thirty.

.oOo.

On his way home, Regulus decided to take a short-cut through the field. Normally on a Friday, he stopped off at the pub for a quick pint with some of his old school friends, but he was too exhausted tonight. He just wanted to go home, cook himself a quick dinner, and go to bed. Those plans were all shot to hell, however, at the sight of a young man — maybe a year or two older than himself — dressed in old-fashioned clothing stood in the middle of the path.

"Hello," the man said, holding his hand out to Regulus, a confident grin adorning his features. "My name's James Potter." Regulus shook his hand somewhat hesitantly.

"Regulus," he said.

"Like the star?" the man — James — asked. Regulus nodded, a little taken aback. Not many people knew that.

"Did you need something?" he asked.

"Yes, Mister Regulus, I was hoping —"

"It's Regulus," he corrected. James paused for a moment, lips pursed in confusion.

"Pardon?"

"My name. It's just Regulus. Not Mister Regulus," he clarified. "Regulus Black."

"Oh, I see," James said, his cheeks turning a faint pink. "You see, where I'm from we aren't so … _familiar_ with people we've just met."

"And where are you from, exactly?" Regulus asked.

"London."

"I've been to London," Regulus said, "and it's not very different from here. And most people certainly don't dress like they're from —"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mister Black," James said. "There's been some confusion. I'm afraid I didn't mean _your_ London."

"Canada?" Regulus asked hesitantly.

"Oh, good heavens no," James said. "I've not been overseas."

"Really?"

"Well, I spent my school years in Scotland, and I've been to Wales on occasion, but I've never left the British Isles. Not even for the Colonies."

"Right, okay. So you're, what? From some alternate dimension?" Regulus asked, tone dry.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm from the past."

"Oh, of course," Regulus said, nodding. "How stupid of me. _Of course_ you're from the past." James nodded, his wide grin returning.

"I'm glad you —"

"Did Barty put you up to this?" Regulus interrupted. "Where is he?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," James confessed, looking apologetic.

"You can cut the act," Regulus snapped. "I'm not an idiot, and it's not funny."

"There's no need to be so rude," James said. "I was merely asking for your assistance."

"Well, I'm not falling for it," Regulus snapped, and stormed off, leaving James alone in the middle of the field.

.oOo.

Regulus struggled to sleep again that night, though for reasons other than the weather. His mind was plagued with images of the man from the park, and he couldn't focus his thoughts elsewhere.

Why would the man agree to such an obvious ruse? And was the spaceship from the night before all just elaborate theatrics on James' part? Regulus really couldn't see Barty going to such lengths.

He rolled out of bed, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. He might as well use this time to see what (if anything) had landed in the field. Regulus stumbled down the stairs, slipping on his shoes and coat over his pyjamas, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.

It'd take five minutes, tops.

.oOo.

Well, there was definitely … _something._ Regulus had no idea what it was. He circled the object for the third time, hoping he might finally make some sense of it.

It looked like a large chair, mechanical wings extending out from underneath the seat, and a thick metal bar surrounding the seat on all four sides. There were buttons and levers in front of the chair, and faded numbers on a small panel. The entire thing looked rather absurd, really; like a large toy, or a prop from an old film.

Regulus leant over the panel, hand reaching towards one of the levers.

"I wouldn't do that." Regulus jumped, pulling his hand back quickly, and spun around. James stood before him, in the same grey suit and top hat, though looking a little rumpled now.

"Why not?" Regulus asked, folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to both seem stern and hide his still shaking hands.

"It'll leave without you, of course," James said. "It's no use setting a destination if you're not onboard." Regulus opened his mouth to ask what James meant by that, but a different question sprung suddenly to his mind:

"Were you sleeping out here?"

"I have no where to stay," James said. "I'm stuck here until I can get my machine fixed."

"Oh?" Regulus raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong with it?"

"You believe me now?" James asked, seemingly amused.

"No, of course not," Regulus scoffed. "I just want to see how far you're willing to take this."

"Oh, of course," James said with an incline of his head. "Ask any questions you need."

"Well …" Regulus floundered. "Why's it pink?"

"It's not pink." James frowned. "More of a magenta, really." He paused for a moment, looking from the machine to Regulus. "Is that really all you have to ask?"

"It doesn't look broken," Regulus said.

"Ah, that's more like it." James grinned. "It's not broken, per se, so much as in need of fuel."

"So … what? You need to charge it?" Regulus asked. At James' blank look, he elaborated. "Plug it in, or … does it work like Back to the Future?"

"No, I don't want to go back to the future," James said. "I'm in the future already, and I don't care to revisit this place. For the most part, your people are rather inhospitable."

"How does your time machine get its power?" Regulus repeated.

"Coal, of course," James said. "It's the most efficient way."

"Coal?" Regulus asked. "Where the hell are you supposed to get coal?"

"What sort of a society are you living in?" James asked, completely shocked. "Coal is a basic necessity!"

"That you intend to find where, exactly?" Regulus snapped, rubbing at his eyes. "This is ridiculous," he muttered. " _You're_ ridiculous."

"You don't mean that," James said. "A gentleman never —"

"Look," Regulus interrupted, dropping his hand from his face. "I'm tired and I only meant to be her for a couple minutes. I'm really not in the mood to be dealing with you right now." James' smile fell, and Regulus sighed, hating what he was about to do. "Why don't you stay at mine. Just for the night," he added quickly. "Just until you find somewhere else to stay. Or find your _coal_."

.oOo.

James stood in the doorway to Regulus house, looking around in complete shock.

"What? I thought you were a time traveler?" Regulus asked dryly.

"Well … this was more of a test run," James said slowly, starting in awe at the overhead lights. "It didn't get off to the best of starts." James blinked slowly, and Regulus supposed he'd probably got the image of the light stuck behind his eyelids.

"Right, well … you can take the sofa," Regulus said. "I'll go get you some blankets." James followed him up the stairs, much to Regulus' annoyance, and kept touching everything that interested him.

"Can I keep this?" he asked, holding up a ballpoint pen. "You have plenty." Regulus sighed.

"Sure."

.oOo.

"Good morning," James said brightly, nearly causing Regulus to fall down the stairs — he'd forgotten he'd invited the other man to stay. Regulus glared over at him, intent on chastising James for startling him so much. Instead, he said:

"I've got some clothes you can borrow. If you'd like," he added quickly, his cheeks flushing a dark red.

"Oh, thank you," James said. "Your clothing … interests me."

"Course it does," Regulus muttered, but went back upstairs and returned with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt for James. "The jeans might be a little short," he said, "but it's the best I could do."

"That's quite alright," James said, and began to strip in Regulus' front room. Regulus' entire face turned a beat red that extended all the way down to his chest, and he turned around quickly.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, a hand over his eyes.

"Getting changed."

"Well, I — I — I'll make breakfast," Regulus stuttered. "Cereal okay?" he asked, but headed towards the kitchen before James could reply.

James joined him at the table a few minutes later; the jeans were a few inches too short, as Regulus had predicted, but were at least staying up on their own. He looked down at his cornflakes a little sceptically, but picked up his spoon and began to eat.

"So," Regulus asked. "What's it like where you're from?"

"I thought you were under the impression I was lying to you?" James asked.

"Oh, I was — I _am_ ," Regulus said quickly. "But … surely you have friends?"

"Of course," James said. "They're — they're back where I come from."

"They didn't come with you?" Regulus asked.

"No, this was only a test run," James said, eyes downcast. "And there isn't really enough room for four."

"Then why not build a bigger time machine?"

"That was the plan," James said. "If this one worked. Which it _does_."

"Of course."

"Remus was going to come with me," James said, ignoring Regulus' obvious doubt, "for the test run. But he was ill. Sirius stayed with him."

"Sirius?" Regulus asked; it was an unusual name, one he hadn't seen outside of his own family.

"Yes, Sirius Black." James thought for a moment. "Perhaps a relative of yours? There's a definite likeness there."

.oOo.

Regulus dropped the heavy bag onto the table in front of James.

"What's this?" James asked.

"Your coal." James grinned, grabbing the bag, and taking hold of Regulus' hand.

"You're going to love this," he said as he led Regulus to where they'd left his time machine.

"What? I'm not — I'm not going with you," Regulus said, pulling his arm from James' grip.

"Why not?" James asked, turning to face him. "A bit of adventure's good for you."

"Because it's still highly likely that this is some sort of elaborate joke you've concocted with some of my friends," Regulus said, though he highly doubted any of his work colleagues would go to such lengths just to prank him. "And there's no guarantee this will even work."

"Well then, I suppose the only way to find out is to try," James said with a smirk, holding out his hand towards Regulus. "Care to join me?" Regulus only hesitated a moment longer before he took James' hand.


	19. The Land of the Dead — GreekGodAU

_[summary] — James/Regulus [God!AU] "What do you mean, he's gone?" he said, his tone deceptively bland. "The God of the Underworld does not just_ disappear _."_

 **A/N** — Thank you, Firefly, for beta'ing :)

[1300 words]

* * *

Orion looked down at James from his large thrown, expression displeased.

"What do you mean, he's gone _?"_ he said, his tone deceptively bland. "The God of the Underworld does not just _disappear_."

"He —" James swallowed thickly "— he didn't just disappear; he left." Orion took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

"Well then I suggest you find him," he hissed in a tone so low James had to strain to hear.

"He could be anywhere by now," James said and could have kicked himself with his own winged boots for that.

There was silence from the Gods seated in front of him, but eventually Walburga hissed:

"And just how long have you known he was missing?"

"He's — Well, it's — it's difficult to say," he croaked, fearing Walburga much more than her husband.

"So, you are telling us that our _son_ has … _run away_ , and you did not feel the need to inform us until now?"

"Well, I — We … we thought we had things under control," James whispered, trailing off towards the end of his sentence. He could feel the blood rushing from his face, panic filling his mind. "We didn't think —"

"Evidently not," she snapped, rising from her chair, her white peplos falling around her ankles just above her sandalled feet.

"He'll — He'll be … down _there_ ," James said, gesturing to the mortal realm below Mount Olympus. "I can send —"

The rest of the Gods finally began to speak then, rather than just watching passively, all loudly voicing their objections.

"Does it really matter?" Bellatrix said, her voice rising above everyone else's. "What is it he does? Check lists? Anyone could do that."

"Well, it's a little more than that," Sirius muttered; his voice would have been lost to James had they not been so near to each other. James had to agree, but knew if they wouldn't listen to the God of the Sea, they wouldn't listen to the Messenger God.

"Send the errand boy," Lucius said, gesturing vaguely at James but not bothering to look in his direction. Walburga nodded, turning back to face James.

"You will return my son to the Underworld within a week, or I will throw you into the river Styx myself," she hissed. James swallowed, nodding quickly. "Well?" she asked. "What are you waiting for?"

.oOo.

"How's it going?" James asked Remus, the Guardian of the Gate.

"Not great," he said.

The queue into the Underworld stretched on further than James could see, even when he lifted himself to get a better look from the sky.

"That tickles," Remus muttered, shoving James' winged sandal away from his face.

"Sorry," James said, though the wide grin spread across his face belied his apology as he dropped down beside Remus one more. "What are we supposed to do?" James asked.

"Well, we can't open the gates to mortals," Remus said, a worried frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. "Not without Regulus."

"Yeah." James sighed. "I'm going down to look for him," he said somewhat reluctantly.

"Down _there?"_ Remus asked, eyes wide. "But — He — Why would he go _there_?"

James shrugged. "I just came to pick up the Map. Hopefully that'll make it easier to find him."

Remus nodded, stepping aside to let James pass, both ignoring the complaints of the dead.

Inside the gates, the Underworld was eerily empty; the queues hadn't moved in days.

.oOo.

James consulted the Marauders Map again, still not sure he was reading it right. Regulus was supposed to be right _here_ , but here was … here was pretty big, and the Map only vaguely covered the Mortal Realm, and it had been created a long time ago. And it had taken him four days just to reach this point. Three left.

He took a hesitant step in the direction of the castle; he couldn't imagine Regulus being anywhere else. The small village he was currently in just seemed a little too … _homey_ for Regulus. He began the steady trek up the path, not bothering with flying.

There was a feeling like he was having to _push_ his way through the air, and then everything was fine. Wards, he suspected, though they seemed too advanced for mortals; regardless, he didn't want to risk flying, in case they were worse in the air.

As he reached the castle he veered off towards the forest, though he couldn't say why. He just had a gut feeling that it was where he was supposed to be, and he had long ago learnt to trust his instincts.

So, he headed into the depths of the forest.

.oOo.

He found Regulus seated on a fallen tree trunk, holding a bouquet of fresh wild flowers.

"Everything's just so alive down here," Regulus whispered, startling James; he hadn't realised Regulus had heard his approach. Regulus turned to face him fully and said in a louder tone: "I suppose you're here to take me back."

"I — Look, I didn't volunteer for this," James said, taking a deep breath, mustering all the strength he had. "But — but you _are_ needed in the Underworld."

Regulus shook his head, eyes dropping back to his flowers. "I just check names off a list," he said. "Anyone could do it."

"That's not true."

"And they all hate me for it, too," Regulus added, ignoring James' interjection. "They curse my name and use me as a threat, but _I_ didn't kill them."

"I know, you —"

"Why couldn't I have been the God of the Sea?" Regulus asked, jealousy colouring his tone. "Everyone loves Sirius."

"But your job is so much more important!" James yelled, giving up on delicacy, forcing Regulus to look at him. "You don't just check names off a list, Regulus, you _guard_ their _souls!_ For _eternity!_ "

Regulus shook his head, pulling himself away from James. "What if I don't want to do it anymore?" he asked. "What if I don't want to be surrounded by death and _hate_ forever?" He sighed, sounding so defeated that James wished there was more he could do. "I'm just as trapped there as they are."

James thought for a moment, pacing the forest floor. "What if," he said slowly, "I talked to your mother?"

"I don't understand," Regulus said. "What good would that do?"

James shrugged. "It might be useless," he said with an apologetic smile. "But it's better than doing nothing. Things can't stay as they were, because you're not happy with that, and they certainly can't stay as they _are_."

Regulus nodded slowly, eyes downcast. "I'll go back," he said quietly.

"Thank you," James said. "I'll — I'll see what I can do about your mother.

.oOo.

"Absolutely not," Walburga said, staring haughtily down at where James stood. "Things were fine as they were and will remain as such." She turned, as though the discussion was over, fully expecting James to just leave it at that.

"With all due respect," James said, tone biting, "things were _not_ fine."

"Everything ran smoothly," she said, glaring down at him.

"For you, maybe." James could see the other Gods leaning closer; it had been centuries since anyone had attempted to talk to Walburga like this. "But not for Regulus."

"Regulus is fine," she hissed. "He's back where he belongs. The _situation_ has been resolved."

"He can always leave the same way he did before," James said. "And next time, I will not be bringing him back."

James had never seen Walburga look so furious. She took a deep breath, opening her mouth to speak, but James interrupted.

"You can come to a decision between you on how things around here will change." He smirked, before adding: "You have one week."


	20. Their Downfall — ApocalypseAU

_[summary] — Baron/OC (platonic) [Apocalypse!AU]_ _Normally, the lorries return empty, but this time …_

 **A/N** — Written for round 10 of QL, where I had to write about the Baron. I also had the optional word prompts sinking and eager.

Also written for DADA, with the prompt: write about a group of two or more people working together to achieve a common goal.

And I'd like to thank Dina, Carmen and Liza for the help with this.

[1700 words]

* * *

The world ended not in fire or flood, but in the mistakes of mankind. Technology had never been advancing faster, there seemed to be nothing humans couldn't invent; they were the rulers of this small space they had created for themselves. But that had all been a very long time ago now, and not many people remembered the Golden Age of Humanity.

The Baron did, in brief flashes that all merged into one vaguely distorted memory, but most people had stopped caring. No one wanted to know about a world that they could never return to, not when it was such a struggle to survive the night.

"Mister Baron, Sir!" a girl called, looking up at him with wide eyes, her face streaked with dirt and her clothes ragged. Her matted red hair was tied up into pigtails with scraps of fabric that had been too small to do anything else with. "I think they're leaving now."

There was a large lorry behind her, mud covering the roof and sides in a crude form of camouflage; he couldn't see them, but he knew there were people crowded together inside. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best they could do.

The girl coughed, a horrible wracking sound, and wiped her hands on her tattered shorts.

"D'you think they'll come back?" she asked, looking up at him with such hope that he nodded, pushing down the guilt at the lie. She grins widely, showing her wonky teeth. "My daddy's on there."

If he were still alive he'd have felt his heart sinking, but as it was he just smiled, mumbled a vague agreement, and drifted off, leaving the girl standing expectantly by the gates.

.oOo.

He drifted the halls aimlessly for a while — he could almost remember when this had been a school, but it was so long ago now, and the place was in disrepair — but he found there was very little for him to do. He knew these halls better than he knew himself, and they couldn't hold his attention for long.

Eventually, he let out a deep breath he didn't need and returned quickly to the girl.

She was where he had left her, though this time she was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs. She didn't look up when he approached, but she said:

"When d'you think they'll be back?"

"Not for a while, yet," he said, sitting down beside her.

"They're going to look for other people, aren't they?" she asked. "People like us?"

He nodded. "But it'll take a while," he said. He didn't know how to tell her that these missions were hopeless; that everyone here now had been born within sight of the old castle. It was only the sick and the elderly sent on these missions, and even he didn't know what happened to them outside.

"My name's Kyra," she said abruptly, turning to face him. "My mum said you've always been here."

He nodded slowly, and said: "I've been here since almost the beginning."

"Since they built the wall?"

"No. Since the beginning of the castle. Did you know it used to be a school?"

She shook her head, smiling in confusion. "What's a school?" He looked at her for a moment, brow furrowed. Of course she didn't know what a school was, they no longer existed — hadn't for years.

"It's … a place of learning," he said slowly.

"Like when Dad teaches me about the virus?" she asked. "Or when Mum showed me how to do sewing on a person?" He nodded.

"You'd probably have been too young for … Hogwarts." The name felt strange on his tongue, unfamiliar, and he gestured vaguely behind him. "You would have needed to be in your teens, I think."

"Was that this castle?" Kyra asked, looking up at him in awe. He nodded, a faint smile pulling up the corners of his lips; he has vague recollections of the place, but he's almost positive any solid memory he could bring up would be false. "Why don't they fix it?"

He looked up at the old ruins and said: "They can't. Any resources went into building the wall."

.oOo.

They sat there for hours, waiting for the lorry to arrive. Darkness fell, and still they waited; it wasn't until the sun was just beginning to arrive that the lorry finally returned, but that was the way of things now. Long periods of boredom and inactivity followed by brief periods where everything seemed to happen at once.

The lorry rolled slowly through the gate, two people holding the gate open for the vehicle, shutting it quickly afterwards. There was something strange, though, as if the lorry weren't running on its own steam. He couldn't hear the engines.

Kyra stood up quickly, standing on tiptoes and craning her neck to see better. "They're back, Mister Baron!" she said, excitement colouring her tone. She turned to him, a wide grin spread across her face, but his attention was still on the lorry. Something was different.

"I think you should go," he said. She nodded eagerly, taking off towards the lorry, but a harsh "no" stopped her in her tracks.

Kyra turned to face him. "Is something wrong?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"You should — You should find someone, someone you know, and stay with them," he said, eyes still glued to the back of the lorry; the mud covering the trailer had been splattered with red, the colours mixing together, and he could faintly hear a noise coming from within.

"I know you," she said quietly, her large eyes filling with tears.

He shook his head sadly. "You need someone corporeal." She tipped her head to the side in confusion. "Someone alive; human." Her bottom lip quivered, but she nodded and ran off towards the castle.

No one exited the cabin, but the scratching from inside the trailer was getting louder, accompanied by the occasional wordless yell. He took a hesitant step closer, unsure why he felt fear when he couldn't be harmed.

He walked through the wall of the trailer. The creatures' screaming grew louder, more frantic, as they tried to grab a hold of him. Coming in here was a mistake, but at least he had a rough idea of how many there were now, though how much good that would do them was debatable.

Their bloodless skin, red eyes and wide mouths made for an alarming sight, and they all crowded closer to him, reaching out with long fingers, nails looking more like claws.

He left quickly.

The sound of the creatures throwing themselves at the metal side of the trailer echoed through the castle grounds, and he could see people running from the building, carrying the few belongings they owned. Most were heading towards the Forest, and he decided he might as well meet them there. He could have stayed if he wanted to, but didn't relish the thought of being alone with these creatures. Most of the other ghosts had moved on. It was just him and the girl left, and she stuck to one of the rooms filled with pipes and stale water.

He reached the Forest just as a loud crash resounded from behind him, and he turned just in time to see the doors spring open. The creatures dragged themselves out, using claw-like hands to dig into earth and flesh alike, seemingly uncaring at their own injuries. Once they were on their feet they were surprisingly fast, and he knew the humans didn't have time to linger.

.oOo.

It took a few days for them all to regroup — or for them to stop waiting on others to arrive, assuming those absent to be gone. The creatures roamed the castle grounds freely, but only a few had bothered to enter the depths of the Forest.

"Mister Baron?" Kyra asked; he had no idea how she'd survived, but there she was, missing a tooth and with a few extra cuts and bruised to join the myriad of scars that covered her body. "Will we be safe in here?"

He nodded, once again lying to the child. She dropped down onto the ground by his feet, and he slowly sank to join her.

"I'm gonna stay with you, Mister Baron," she said, pulling her knees to her chest. She was shivering, but there was nothing he could do about that.

"Alright," he said, and watched as she fell asleep still sitting, her head dropping forwards and resting on her knees.

He could hear the creatures growing closer that night, and every night that followed.

.oOo.

They tried to stick together, but it was nearly impossible to always remain with someone. Dwindling numbers and the maze-like forest saw to that. And soon, there was only a handful left.

And then just two. Kyra, against all odds, had survived, but the wall prevented them from actually leaving the Forest. The other woman — tall and thin, obviously malnourished — didn't seem to be faring so well. She had a fever and suffered from nightmares every night that caused her to wake up screaming, though she never spoke a single word.

It was a miracle the creatures hadn't found them yet, with the noise she made, but he'd noticed after the first few failed attempts that they seemed to avoid him. The fact that they had the ability to learn worried him the most.

So, naturally, the creatures arrived at their little camp when he wasn't there. They'd gotten lazy; developed a pattern in where they spent the night, and ultimately that had been their downfall. In thinking that the creatures would not get over whatever aversions they had to him, they had sealed their fate.

.oOo.

He returned to the old castle; wandered the halls of the building for years. The building slowly deteriorating around him, but little else showed the passing of time.

And then, one day, the wall was rebuilt.


	21. The Dragon Thieves — DystopianAU

_[Summary] — Katie/Marcus [Dystopian!AU] Katie pulled the faded material which served as a curtain aside, peering into the dimness of the village before sunrise. It was too early to go outside — no one wanted to be out alone without the protection of the sun — but soon …_

 **A/N —** Thanks to Jordi, FF Rose, and Carmen for the beta'ing and help with this :)

Prompts are at the end

* * *

Katie pulled the faded material which served as a curtain aside, peering into the dimness of the village before sunrise. It was too early to go outside — no one wanted to be out alone without the protection of the sun — but soon …

She waited just long enough for the first rays of sun to filter through the holes worn into the curtains. The door creaked on its hinges as she slowly pulled it open, and she paused for a moment though she knew it hadn't been enough to wake anyone. When she'd decided enough time had passed, she stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. The unfinished wood fit loosely in the frame, but it still served to keep out the worst of the frigid winter air.

Stuffing her hands into her pockets and keeping her eyes on her ill-fitting shoes, Katie trudged through the snow. She didn't need to pay attention to where she was going; this was a route she'd taken many times before.

She only looked up when she stepped foot into the clearing, a little out of breath from the upwards slope of the hill, and froze, heart racing. She'd never seen anyone else here.

He stood up slowly — he must have heard her approach, but she hadn't known she might need to be quiet — and turned to face her. Even from across the clearing, she could see the wary set to his features and the stiff way he held himself.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his brows furrowing in a glare. She opened and closed her mouth uselessly for a moment; she'd never seen anyone like him before. He wasn't attractive by anyone's standard, but his clothes … they were unlike anything she'd ever seen before, and here she was with her tattered shoes and second-hand jacket. His clothes looked … new. "You shouldn't be here," he said, breaking the silence once more. "Sometimes the … soldiers pass through."

"Really?" she asked, finally managing to pull her thoughts together. "I've never seen anyone else here before today."

"So?" he snapped. "That doesn't mean they don't."

"But why would they? There's nothing here." She went to wipe the snow off a large rock — one she'd come to think of as her rock — but she froze mid-gesture when she realised that someone had beaten her to it. With an irritated sigh, she sat heavily on the stone, wincing slightly at the impact.

"What are you doing?" She could hear his footsteps crunching in the snow but didn't turn to look. "Don't sit down! You're supposed to be leaving."

"I'm just looking at the castle," she said, indicating the gap between the trees. He took another step forward, stopping beside her, and squinting in the direction she was pointing. A forest took up most of the horizon, its depths looking dark and unwelcoming, but it was the castle which held both of their attention.

"You mean the … ruins?" he asked slowly, not turning to look at her.

"… Yeah," she said, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands.

"You're not going anywhere, are you?" He dropped down on the rock next to her. She didn't reply; it was all she could do to mask her irritation. "What's so special about that castle, anyway?" he asked when it became obvious she wasn't going to speak.

"Oh, nothing," she said. "My mum used to tell me stories, is all. About magic and witches, all make-believe really, but … sometimes it's nice to pretend, y'know?" She felt his shoulder lift, and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "No?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, sure," he said, but she could see the look of distaste that briefly crossed his features. She shrugged it off — it wasn't any of her business — and turned her full attention back to the castle. He still clearly wanted her to leave, but what she did wasn't any of his business.

Sometimes, she could imagine people there, having adventures in the castle halls and exploring the grounds. She didn't think anyone would be out today, it was too cold for that — the snow had stopped falling, leaving a thick covering over everything, but her breath still formed fog in the air and her fingers and toes were numb from the cold.

But still, if she could go down there and have even a fraction of the adventures her mum had described, nothing would stop her.

.oOo.

"Katie, it's time for bed," her mum whispered, nudging the sleepy child until she lifted her head.

"Wha— No, I'm not tired," she mumbled through a yawn.

"Of course not," her mum said, amusement clear in her voice. She pulled Katie to her feet and said: "Why don't I tell you a story then?"

"About Hogwash?" Katie asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "And magic and —"

"Yes, about Hogwarts," her mum pronounced the word slowly.

"Did you go to Hog-warts?"

"For a little while," she said softly.

"Will I get to go?"

Her mum didn't answer for a while but then she said, so quiet Katie probably wouldn't have heard had she not been listening so intently: "I don't think so." And then, louder: "it's not the same as it used to be. It's not like how I remember."

"What's it like now?"

"It's … different," she said, frowning at the last word. "Not quite … safe."

"But, Mum, you said there were dragons," Katie whined. "Dragons aren't safe."

Her mum laughed, all tension seemingly forgotten. "No, dragons aren't safe at all. But there weren't always dragons."

.oOo.

"It's dark," he said, abruptly pulling her from her thoughts. "Shouldn't be out after dark."

"Yeah, I know that, thanks," she snapped. She didn't want to admit it, but she hadn't noticed the sun setting; if she had, she would have left hours ago.

Standing up, she made her way over to the edge of the clearing.

"What are you doing now?"

"What does it look like?" She turned to glare at him. "I'm going home."

"By yourself?" he asked incredulously. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"What do you care?"

"I — I don't," he said. "It's just — No, just do what you want. I need to get home, too, anyway."

"Alright."

"Alright."

"Well," she said, when it didn't look like he was going anywhere. "I'm off."

"Okay," he said. Neither of them moved for a few more minutes. "Fine," he snapped, and turned, leaving from the opposite side of the clearing that she had entered through.

She listened to his heavy footfalls for a moment, before turning and leaving with a muttered: "fine."

The walk home was usually a lot faster, but after dark she knew she needed to be quiet. There was no way to know who or what was lurking in the shadows, and it was better to err on the side of caution.

A rustle behind her had her stopping instantly, her heart beating faster and breathing short. She didn't have anything on her that could be used as a weapon, and it was too far back to the village to run. Her best bet was to stay low and silent and hope …

"Hey?" a familiar voice called. "You here?"

She remained crouching, heart beating loudly in her ears, but she knew enough to keep her breathing quiet and even. Until: "It's you!" she said, a lot louder than she should have.

"Er …—" he scratched the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable even in the dim lighting "— yeah?"

Katie stood slowly, watching him warily. "What're you doing here?"

"Can't leave you on your own, can I?" he muttered, a scowl tugging down the corners of his mouth. "Probably get yourself killed."

"What do you care?" she snapped, standing to her full height and glaring back at him. He didn't reply — she supposed he couldn't, since he didn't in fact care — so she shrugged and said: "Fine. Do what you want."

They made the rest of the journey in uncomfortable silence, but she couldn't quite work out a way to get him to leave. She didn't think outright telling him to do so would work.

Thankfully, they were pretty close to the edge of the village.

"Here's fine," she said. "You need to get home, too."

"No one'll notice if I'm a little late," he said. She had to wonder at that: where could he possibly live that no one would care that he wasn't home before dark?

"Katie!" she heard, hissed from somewhere to her left. "Where have you been?"

She could see him smirk, and jabbed a quick elbow to his ribs. "Mum? What're you doing?"

"It's dark, Katie, do you have any idea how worried we've been?" Her mum appeared directly in front of her, approaching without a sound. "Who's this?" she asked, tone instantly losing all traces of anger.

"Sorry, Mum," Katie muttered. "Err … this is …"

"Marcus," he said. Katie didn't like the look he was giving her mum, but she couldn't say why for sure. Maybe it was a little too predatory? A little too calculating? Almost as if there was some sort of familiarity there. She pushed the thought aside; she was probably just imagining things.

"You're not from the village," Katie's mum said, watching Marcus warily. Katie was once again drawn to his clothes; how they contrasted so starkly with everything around them. She sighed and said: "Well, you can't go wandering by yourself in the dark." Katie wanted to disagree, but her mum didn't look too happy about it either. "You'd best stay with us for the night."

"You'd just let a stranger sleep in your house?" Marcus asked incredulously, but followed when she ushered him towards their home. With a huff, Katie followed, letting her thoughts drift elsewhere to mask her annoyance.

.oOo.

"Tell me about the dragons," Katie begged, looking up at her mum with wide eyes.

"You know I didn't see a lot of dragons," her mum said, but then, she always said that. "But … I suppose I could tell you the stories my mum told me."

Katie grinned widely. "Did Grandma see dragons?"

"Grandma used to work with dragons," she said, tucking Katie into bed. "In the Welsh reserve."

"Can we go see the dragons?" Katie asked around a yawn. "I've never seen one."

"I'm sorry, Katie," she said sadly. "It's not there anymore."

"Did the dragons go with Grandma?" Katie asked. "To be war heroes in heaven?"

"Some of them did," she said softly, pressing a kiss to her daughter's head. "But most didn't."

"Where'd they go?"

Katie's eyes slipped closed, and she only just caught her mum's faint response: "They were taken."

.oOo.

"What're you doing?" Katie asked, watching Marcus quickly step back from the window.

"Nothing," he snapped. "Why're you lurking?"

"I'm not! And it's my house, anyway," she said. "I can do what I want." She pushed him aside to take a look out the window. "What's that?"

"What's what?" he asked, not turning to look where she was pointing.

"That light thing. It's moving."

He looked where she was pointing then, a frown on his face, and said: "No it isn't."

"I'm not insane," she snapped, about thirty seconds from punching the ever-present scowl off his face. "I know what I —"

"Look, you're tired," he reasoned, tone of voice unusually soft. "And it's probably nothing."

Katie was about to argue, but he looked so calm for once that she found herself exhaling loudly and nodding in agreement. She saw him take one last glance out the window, and she followed his line of sight with her eyes.

The light was gone.

.oOo.

"Why'd they take the dragons, Mum?" she asked, older now but still unwilling to let go of their nightly traditions.

"Because dragons are — the dragons were powerful," she said. "And they wanted the dragons on their side."

"Who did? The people Grandma was fighting?" Katie asked, sitting cross-legged on her narrow mattress. "How'd they make the dragons fight for them if they're so strong?"

"Dragons aren't a match for that many wizards who know what they're doing," she said. "And they certainly did."

"Who …" Katie hesitated; this was one question her mum had never answered properly. "Who were they? The people who took the dragons?"

"Bad wizards," her mum said — the usual response, which didn't really answer much — but then, she continued, much quieter, in a tone she might have thought Katie couldn't hear, and whispered: "They called themselves Death Eaters."

.oOo.

Smoke permeates the room, filling her lungs and making her hack painful coughs. She can't see much, but the crackle of fire is enough to get her moving, stumbling towards the door.

Outside, the entire village is chaos; people running, screaming, crying. Everything is on fire.

She looks up, eyes stinging and tears leaving trails in the ash sticking to her skin. Squinting, she can just make out something above their heads, right where she thinks the centre of the village would be. A faint greenish glow, twisting above them, though she can't quite make out what it is.

And there's no time to stay and try to work it out.

She doesn't know where her mum is — can only hope she got out of the house — but she runs, heading for the side of the village opposite the forest.

She hits something with force … or … nothing? There's nothing there, but she's flung backwards as though she'd just run into a brick wall, and the smoke stops abruptly, curling upwards as though following a curve.

Tears course freely down her cheeks now, not just from the fire; her hands are shaking and sobs wrack her frame.

She looks up, wanting to catch one last look of freedom, and meets newly-familiar eyes across the invisible barrier.

* * *

 **A/N** — Written for the first round of QL finals — use a juxtaposition and foreshadowing, and the pairing Marcus/Katie — with the optional prompts tradition and dawn.


	22. A Study in Rose — WriterAU

_[summary] — Scorpius/Rose (platonic) [Writer!AU] In which Rose is fictional and Scorpius is a writer who just can't let go_

 **A/N** — Did I write this because I couldn't think of an actual plot? Yes. Yes I did.

Thank you to the awesome Dina [DinoDina] for beta'ing

[3403]

* * *

He sits, staring at the words he's already typed up. And deletes the entire page. He feels a brief moment of remorse, but it was all crap anyway. Just nonsense typed because he couldn't think of anything else.

It's time for a new approach.

He finds a character profile template online and copies it into a new document.

 **[name] Rose** he types quickly — it's a name he's always liked — though pauses when it comes to her surname. He opens a new tab, searching for a list of unusual surnames. None of them look right, though, and he grows bored of reading the long list. He decides, instead, to use the surname of a teacher he'd had in school, years ago now, who had been the one to get him into writing in the first place.

 **[name] Rose Weasley**

 **[born] 2005**

It makes sense for her to be his age, he reasons, as it'll make her easier to characterise.

 **[nationality] English/British**

 **[hometown] London**

Might as well keep her in an area he knew.

 **[siblings]**

He pauses here, thinking. What would her family life have been like? She'd have a younger sister, surely? No …

 _"Mum!" Rose yells from upstairs. "Hugo won't stay out of my room!"_

 _"I'm not in her room!" Hugo retorts, and their mother releases a tired sigh._

 _"Aren't you two a bit old for this?" she asks, setting aside her work and ascending the stairs._

 _The sight she is greeted with is Hugo standing just outside Rose's doorway, feet carefully positioned so they are aligned with the doorway and he_ technically _isn't in her room._

 _"Rose, he isn't in your room," she says._

 _"See! I told you —" Hugo begins, but their mother interrupts._

 _"And Hugo, stop antagonising your sister!"_

 **[siblings] Hugo (younger brother)**

He leaves the spouse and children sections blank.

 **[extended family]**

 _Mountains of food lie before them, and Rose feels saliva pooling in her mouth already. Her fingers itch to grab the serving spoon for the nearest dish before anyone else can, but she waits for her Grandma to sit first._

 _"Everyone dig in," Molly says with a grin, and there's a rush of noise: the clatter of plates and shouts as dishes are grabbed from hands that weren't quite finished with them. Buffet style's always a risk — especially with so many of them all clamouring for food — but Rose likes to think she's perfected it over the years._

 _She's learnt to always sit in front of the food you can't grab with bare fingers, and to take what you can from the dishes other people have grabbed. There's different techniques, she knows — Victoire, her eldest cousin, likes to be the last to take each dish; the riskiest tactic, as all the best bits are gone, but it means she can take as much as she wants without having to leave enough for everyone else — but this is the one she's found works best for her._

 _And pilfering off people's plates is only acceptable once everyone's got all their food and the owner of said plate has made the mistake of leaving their food unattended._

 **[extended family] LARGE**

 **Grandmother: Molly Weasley**

 **Cousins: Victoire Weasley (oldest)**

He'll fill in the rest later, but for now he wants to focus on Rose.

 **[appearance]**

 _Rose towers above most of the boys in her year, though she supposes they might not have finished growing. Still: a bit embarrassing. And she has yet to grow into her gangly limbs, but there's still beauty in her slightly-too-large features — though she will never quite grow into her nose — and she holds herself with as much grace an awkward teen can._

 _Brown eyes like her mother, and her hair a natural red that she's inherited from her father. She's curled it today, so what would once normally reach her shoulders falls a couple inches above, held back from covering her eyes with bobby pins hidden in her locks._

 _"You look beautiful," a girl says, and Rose blushes a deep red, bordering on purple, that clashes with her hair and hides her freckles. "Maybe some make-up though?" Roses face falls._

 _"I — I don't know how," she says, eyes dropping to her feet, clad in her nicest shoes — okay, still converse, but they're the only shoes she owns that aren't caked with mud or stained with dirt and grass and other things she doesn't want to know about._

 _"I can teach you," he friend says. "But I'll do it for you this time." Rose grins at that, a relieved smile that shows slightly crooked teeth. "Gotta look good for your first date."_

 **[mannerisms & speech patterns]**

 _"Al!" she yells, running to catch up with one of her many cousins._

Scorpius scrolls up and adds **Albus Weasley** to the list of family members.

 _"Rosie," he says in a sing-song voice._

 _"Don't call me that!" she snaps, having caught up to him, now slightly out of breath._

 _"Don't call me Al."_

 _"Not a fan of Paul Simon?"_

 _"You have such a middle-aged-dad taste in music," he mutters, but lets the matter drop. "Did you want something?"_

 _"Aww, c'mon Al._ Albus," _she corrects herself. "We hardly see each other anymore. Not since we were sorted into different houses."_

 _"We see each other plenty."_

 _"Only during holidays. I miss you."_

He makes a note at the bottom of the document: **attends boarding school**.

He isn't sure he's quite worked out all her mannerisms, though. In fact, he knows he hasn't, but it's not something he's particularly worried about; those'll unfold more the more he writes her.

 **[best quality]**

 _Rose stands awkwardly just inside the doorway of the room she is sharing with three of her cousins, hesitant to enter._

Scorpius thinks for a moment; Albus and Victoire weren't siblings, but he felt like they'd each have some. He adds **Dominique Weasley (Victoire's younger sister)** to the **[extended family]** section.

 _Dominique hasn't seen her yet, if the undisguised sobbing is anything to go by, though her eyes are so red and puffy Rose wonders if she can see anything. Until:_

 _A hiccough, followed by a loud sniff, and Dominique is hurriedly wiping the tears from her cheeks, as if that's all she needs to do to hide the evidence._

 _"I — I'm sorry," Rose stutters. "Grandma said to tell you dinner's ready," she finishes awkwardly, shuffling her feet and wishing she'd been fast enough to leave before Dominique noticed her._

 _"Oh," Dominique says, sniffing again, but she doesn't move._

 _"Do — do you want me to get Victoire? Or —"_

 _"No! No," Dominique continues at a more natural volume, "I'm okay. Thanks."_

 _"You don't look okay," Rose says slowly, wishing she would just turn and leave — Dominique probably wants that too — but she's never been one to leave someone hurting. "What's wrong?"_

 _"It's — It's nothing. It's stupid," Dominique says, turning away._

 _"You don't have to —"_

 _"Louis' starting school this year," Dominique says before Rose can finish. Rose gingerly takes a seat on the bed next to her cousin._

 _"And you're a squib." She winces at how harsh the words sound — she hadn't intended to be so blunt — but she can't take them back._

 _"Thanks, Rosie, I hadn't noticed." She scowls through her tears, her tone biting._

 _"Sorry." They sit in silence for a moment, both thinking, and then Rose says: "Filch is —"_

 _"Don't even go there," Dominique snaps, but she's stopped crying now, too angry for tears. In a round-about way, Rose counts it as a win._

He scrolls up once again, adding **squib** beside Dominique's name and, on a new line, **Louis Weasley (Victoire & Dominique's younger brother)**. In hindsight, it might have been easier to use two separate documents, but …

 **[favourite sayings]**

 _Everyone's drenched and shivering, water dripping steadily onto the stone floor._

 _"I told you that wasn't the right spell," Albus says, finally breaking the stunned silence._

 _"Ah well," Rose says, her grin far wider than the situation really called for. "What's done is done."_

He grins; he can actually remember this happening one time at school. A mistake his friend had made in first year, confusing _Alohomora_ with _Aguamenti._ Easily done, he reasons, when you haven't officially been taught either.

 **[hobbies & personality]**

 _"Check mate," Rose says with a grin. Her chess piece moves, smashing her opponents king — okay, so maybe her opponent just so happens to be her best friend, Katie, but her point still stands._

 _"I'd beat you in Quidditch any day, Rose," is Katie's sullen response._

 _"The hell you would!" She stands quickly. "Grab your broom, let's do this."_

 _"It's chucking it down, you moron! I'm not going outside in this weather, let alone flying!"_

 _"So you concede?" she asks, cocky grin firmly in place._

 _"Never!"_

 _Her friend doesn't so much win as tackle Rose to the ground, but it's been hours now and they've likely missed curfew — they've definitely missed dinner, which Rose is a bit upset about, but her cousin showed her where the kitchens were back in her second year — so they decide to call it a draw._

 _They're caught sneaking back into the castle, covered in sweat and leaving a trail of mud through the Entrance Hall. Detention every night for a week is a little harsh in Rose's opinion, but she's too hungry to argue._

 _After being escorted back to the Gryffindor Common Room, it doesn't take them long to sneak out again._

 **[education] Boarding School — Hogwarts**

 _She lies in her dorm room, staring up at the canopy above her bed. "What're you guys gonna do when you graduate?" she asks in a small voice._

 _"We've got like two years, Rose," someone across the room says. "Go to sleep."_

 _She sits up quickly, disturbing the owl she'd been petting. "I can't sleep! Aren't you worried? Excited? The classes we pick for next year are gonna decide our entire future!"_

 _A pillow hits her in the back of the head. "Shut_ up!"

 _"Fine," she mutters. And then, louder: "I'm keeping this."_

Scorpius sits back, staring at the document. It's a bit of a mess right now, with random sections that could potentially be included in a longer story mixed in with Rose's character bio, but he'll fix it later.

He moves on to the next section.

 **[what frightens this character?]**

 _A pigeon flies low overhead; Rose shrieks and ducks into the nearest shop, hands covering her head._

 _"Are you serious?" Lily asks. Albus and Hugo are doubled over with laughter, both gasping for air, their cheeks reddening. She thinks Hugo might even be crying._

Well, everyone's scared of something, Scorpius reasons. And it has absolutely nothing to do with that seagull who stole his ice-cream — _and came back for seconds —_ the one year his family had decided to stay in the UK for their summer holiday.

He adds **Lily Weasley** beneath Albus' name. He is about to start the next section when he decides that maybe Albus and Lily should have a different surname — perhaps Rose's dad had a sister? — and he scrolls back up and deletes **Weasley** from next to Albus and Lily's names, changing it to **Potter** , recalling the countless times he's had to drive through Potters Bar. He'd always told himself he'd use the name one day.

He gives them an older brother, who he names **James**.

 **[what would most embarrass this character?]**

 _"C'mon, Rose," Albus goads, having seated himself at the Gryffindor table for dinner that night, "what could be more embarrassing than your fear of pigeons?"_

 _"Being rejected in front of the entire school?" she suggests. "Having everyone watch as my heart is literally ripped from my chest and crushed by the love of my life?"_

 _Albus pauses for a moment, then says: "Have you considered asking her out in private?"_

 _"So you_ do _think she'll reject me?"_

 _"Well," Albus hesitates, "you're not making a great case for yourself right now."_

 _Rose huffs, about to say something more when the subject of their conversations stands up from the Ravenclaw table and makes her way over._

 _"Hey, uh … I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?" she asks. Rose grins, nodding._

 _"Yeah, I — Hogsmeade?"_

 _It doesn't occur to her that it was maybe a little too coincidental until her cousin cracks up with laughter at the other end of the table._

 **[how does the character deal with sadness?]**

 _"Just get out!" Rose snaps. "Leave me alone."_

 _"I really am sorry," James says for what feels like the hundredth time. "It was meant to be a joke."_

 _"Leave. Me. Alone," she repeats, enunciating every word clearly through gritted teeth._

 _Only when he's gone does she let the tears fall, burying her face into her pillow to muffle her sobs._

 **[with change]**

 _Rose had thought she'd be sad at her graduation, but now the time has come she's elated. She'd loved Hogwarts, she always would, but she was so ready to leave the school behind. She won't even need to miss her friends — not that she'd had many — as Dominique had found a nice flat off Horizont Alley and Katie was moving in with them soon after they'd graduated. And of course she'd be seeing Albus all the time, too._

 _And, okay, she'd miss living in an actual_ castle _, but she hates to think she might have peaked before even leaving her teens._

 _Now, she is ready for the next stage in her life, excited for what is to come._

 **[how does the character deal with loss?]**

 _Rose sits stoically all though the funeral, face blank. Her mother leans close to whisper, "It's okay to cry, Rose," her voice thick with tears of her own. Rose nods, swallowing thickly, but her eyes remain dry._

 _It is only later, when she is alone in her room, that the tears begin to fall._

"He's in a better place."

 _She remembers how her aunt Ginny had to be held back by two of her uncles at that —_ "A child! He's a child! _How_ can he be in a better place?" — _and how, a few long weeks ago, she'd never seen her dad cry. Now, it's a daily occurrence._

 _There's a tentative knock at her door — everyone's a lot quieter now, more subdued — and her mother pushes the door open slowly. She stands in the doorway looking apologetic, waiting for an invite before stepping into the room._

 _And Rose_ howls, _her silent tears turning into loud, gut-wrenching sobs that leave her red and struggling to breath, Her mother is quick to join her on the bed, wrapping Rose in the safety of her arms, though Rose can feel her tears too._

 _Distantly, she notices her father joining them, but she can only focus on herself; her own pain._

 **[greatest flaw]**

 _"Weasley! You could have got yourself killed!" yells Auror Blanchard, pacing his office and reminding Rose of a caged tiger more than anything else. "You're lucky not to be sacked!"_

 _Rose lets out a sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping slightly. "I —"_

 _"I'm not finished!" He turns to face her and she tenses once more. "You will be on desk duty for the foreseeable future. "If I even so much as_ think _you have left this building during work hours you will be out of here before you can say 'Fizzing Whizzbees'"_

 _Rose decides it's not worth mentioning that she's very unlikely to say Fizzing Whizzbees within office hours. Instead, she says, "Yessir," and nods her head in what she hopes is a respectful and chagrined manner._

 _"Just —" he rubs his eyes, looking older than she's ever seen "—_ try _to stay out of trouble, Weasley. Do your job and let other people do theres."_

 _"Yessir," she repeats for lack of anything else to say._

 _"You're a good recruit, Rose," she notes the use of her given name, but doesn't dare interrupt, "but you're pretty far from knowing everything." She nods, eyes downcast._

 **[what motivates this character?]**

He considers putting something like love or friendship — they would both fit her well — but he doesn't think that's all that motivates her. She's more complex, less cliché. He drums his fingers gently on the keys, careful not to press any.

He'd been doing so well, he thinks with a self-depreciating sigh.

Pushing himself up from his chair, he grabs the tin of teabags from the shelf above him and flicks on the kettle he keeps at his desk.

Sitting back down, he resumes typing as the water boils, hoping something makes at least a little sense.

 _"Rose? What're you still doing here?" Fred asks._

Another cousin, Scorpius decides, though he'll have to expand the character lists at some point, for now he wants to stick to her family and close friends.

 _"I need to finish this," she says, nodding towards the large stack of files beside her._

 _"Can't it wait until tomorrow? It's just filing," he says, leaning against the desk opposite hers. "We're all going down to the pub if you wanted to join?"_

 _She shakes her head. "Sorry, not this time." Though she knows recently she's said that every time. "I want to keep on top of things. There'll be more coming in tomorrow."_

 _"Alright Rose." He pushes himself off the desk and makes to leave, calling over his shoulder: "Just remember to get some rest. You don't need to be the best at everything."_

The kettle boils, but Scorpius ignores it and continues typing.

 **[how does the character deal with anger?]**

 _Rose stands back as the Medi-Witch examines the body. There's charms around the area, keeping the rain from contaminating any evidence that remains, but Rose is standing outside of those, letting the rain soak through her red Auror robes._

 _Distantly, she notes she's shivering, but all her attention remains on the body she can no longer see. A young girl, can't yet be old enough to attend Hogwarts. Now, she never will._

 _"Weasley?" the Medi-Witch — Carrie — calls, and Rose pushes down her anger to be dealt with at a later date. Preferably when she's alone._

 _"Yeah?" she asks, stopping behind the other woman. "You find something?"_

 _"No. Not really," she says. "I've got all I can from here, though."_

 _"Back to the lab?" Carrie nods._

 **[with conflict?]**

 _"Rose, we never see you anymore," her mother says, but at Rose's look she amends: "We_ barely _see you anymore."_

 _"It's just … it's difficult, Mum," Rose says eventually, not meeting her mother's eyes. "There's so much to do at work and it just … it never_ ends _." She looks up then, meeting her mother's worried gaze. "And there's so much to do, and I can't fall behind —"_

 _"Rose," her mother takes her hand, leading her to the sofa, "don't you think you're putting too much pressure on yourself? You're allowed a personal life."_

 _"I have one, Mum, I do," she says. "I see my friends all the time. Have done since I got back in the field"_

 _"And you're taking time for yourself?"_

 _"Yes, I just said —"_

 _"Not going out and having fun with your friends, though of course that's important," her mother interrupts. "I mean spending time_ by _yourself. Just being alone. That's important, too."_

 _Rose shakes her head._

 **[what makes this character happy?]**

 _Rose runs her fingers through Carrie's hair, her book long-forgotten beside them._

 _The lights are off but the sky is dark outside and they've left the curtains open; the room is only illuminated by the occasional flash of lightening and the gentle light from Rose's wand._

 _She listens out for the next rumble of thunder, the gap between getting slightly shorter each time._

 _"Why d'you like storms so much?" Carrie murmurs, blinking her eyes open slowly._

 _Rose thinks for a moment, then she says: "I like the sounds. Rain on the roof, thunder overhead."_

 _"So you don't like being out in them?" Carrie makes to sit up, but Rose gently holds her down, returning to carding her fingers through Carrie's hair._

 _"No," Rose whispers. "Being out in a storm's like … like you're small and insignificant and alone."_

 _"And being inside isn't?" Carrie asks, flinching at another flash of lightning._

 _"No," Rose pauses for the rumble of thunder, "you're still small, but you're safe. Like when you're a kid and you're mum wraps you in her arms."_

 **[how character is different at the end of the story]**

He leaves this blank. He isn't ready for her story to end just yet.


	23. Kill of the Night — WerewolfAU

_[Summary] — Salazar/Helga (platonic/subtly implied one-sided/future) [Werewolf!AU] He glances round, the smell of smoke clouding his senses — still illegal, but no one really cares anymore — noting the definite category everyone inside easily falls into. All except one, he realises, as his eyes land on a woman._

 **A/N** — The title and lyrics are from the song Kill of the Night by Gin Wigmore. Set sometime in the future.

[3411]

* * *

 _The street's a lair_

 _I'm gonna lure you into the dark_

 _My cold desire_

 _To hear the boom, boom, boom of your heart_

…oOo…

He's hot and tired and uncomfortable; his hear sticks to the back of his neck with sweat, and his tongue is dry and numb with thirst.

It's late, though, and so naturally the only place still open is a seedy bar. The pub looks like it would be more at place in an old American film — the kind that had edgy characters and edgy scenery to match — with its run down exterior and the flash of neon lights from within. He shrugs, pushing open the wooden door with it's dirty glass windows and peeling paint, and steps inside.

It's as he'd imagined. Full of _youths_ in dark clothing, alt rock playing on an old-fashioned radio; most of the patrons have opted to forgo a glass in favour of drinking straight from the bottle. But, he supposes, he wouldn't trust the glasses in this place either.

He glances round, the smell of smoke clouding his senses — still illegal, but no one really cares anymore — noting the definite _category_ everyone inside easily falls into. All except one, he realises, as his eyes land on a woman.

She's short and a little overweight with a kind face, but that doesn't automatically exclude her from the rest of the people here. No, she does that on her own, with the way she chooses to present herself. With the cardigan slung over the red vinyl barstool and her sensible shoes; with the slight upturn to her lips that she can't pass off as anything but the beginning of a gentle smile.

But, despite all that, she seems very comfortable here. Much more so than he is.

He walks over to the bar, standing as close to her as he can get without being overly creepy, which is still closer than he would normally deem acceptable, and waits to be served.

"Abe," the woman says, beckoning the bartender over.

"What can I get'cha, Helga?" he asks, ignoring customers who had clearly been waiting longer.

"Another G-and-T," she says, indicating towards her suspiciously clean glass, "and whatever he's having." It takes Salazar a moment to realise she means him.

He scans the fridge behind the bar, his thinking being that if it's in a sealed bottle it'll at least be _clean_ if nothing else. It's a little difficult to see through the dusty glass, but he sees what he thinks might — hopefully — be a beer and asks for a Hobgoblin. And no, it's not just because he finds the name mildly amusing.

"That's crap, y'know," she says; he responds with a shrug, watching the bartender — _Abe_ — carefully.

"Glass?" the man asks gruffly and Salazar shakes his head in the negative. "Suit yerself," he mutters, sullenly opening the bottle and handing it over. "You're not making the lady pay, are ya?"

"I offered, Abe," she reminds him, giving the man a warm smile. Salazar can't figure out how it is she's so comfortable here; how she clearly comes here often, to have such an easy camaraderie with the gruff bartender. Still, he doesn't let her pay.

"You know," she says, once Abe has gone to tend to other customers, "I get drinks free here."

He doesn't ask why. Instead, he takes a deep pull of his beer to avoid responding and immediately regrets it. It's warm and absolutely vile, but he stubbornly refuses to let her know she was right and so forces his face to remain blank and resolutely continues drinking. She seems smug though, in a way that leaves him reasonably certain she knows.

"You're not very talkative, are you?" she asks, tilting her head to the side and regarding him with mild concern; he imagines it's the sort of look a mother might give to a child behaving oddly. Then again, there's something almost spectator-like to it. As if the look wouldn't be out of place on the faces of people visiting a zoo, staring down at the lion imprisoned behind re-enforced glass and metal fences. But she smiles again and the feeling is gone as quickly as it came.

"I don't usually keep a lot of company," he says, and if he's only talking to delay having to take another sip of beer, well, she doesn't need to know that.

"You're Irish."

"And you're Welsh," he counters blandly.

She smiles. "You're right; not a great conversation starter." She rests her elbows on the table, leaning her chin in the cup of her palm, and regards him carefully; it's not quite the same look as before — it's coloured with amusement this time — but he still feels vaguely like that lion. "I don't know you're name," she says, and it's not quite a question, but he answers anyway:

"Salazar."

"That's unusual," she says, but he gets the feeling she's not asking to discuss further, just making a general comment. She doesn't offer her name and he doesn't bother asking — he already knows it, whether she wanted him to or not, thanks to _Abe_. "So what brings you to Hogsmeade?" she asks instead.

"I'm just passing through," he says, and she nods in a way that makes him thing most people are 'just passing through'. He's left with a sudden feeling that he will never leave, but he shakes it off; it's a ridiculous notion. "I have a friend who lives near." He doesn't say how near; he doesn't know.

"Where are you staying tonight? It's pretty late." From anyone else, he would think it was a come-on, but she seems genuinely curious, a little worried even.

He shrugs, unconcerned. "I'll find something."

.oOo.

 _The creature prowls through the forest, breathing deeply, evenly. There is nothing much of interest here — nothing_ new _— but it knows if it can find the borders, if it can escape, there will be. For the creature knows it is trapped, despite appearing to be free, but tonight … tonight feels_ different _._

 _Tonight, the magic confining the beast doesn't feel quite as strong. Something has changed — for the better, at least as far as the creature is concerned — and it is more than willing to exploit this._

 _A gust of wind brings the smell towards the creature again — the smell that had signalled this slight alteration — and the creature pauses. Waiting._

 _The smell comes from the east, and so that is where the creature heads._

 _The other animals of the forest shy away in fear, so its path is only hindered by the landscape. All familiar terrain to the beast._

 _Walking further than before, the barriers not giving off the usual sense of_ fear-pain-run _they usually do, the creature can see the trees thinning._

 _It stops just behind the last tree, eyes scanning the grounds beyond the forest. This is not something it has seen before — or, at least, not something it can recall — and so it scans the grassy field carefully._

 _The barriers are still intact, it can tell, but there is still a mild undercurrent of their usual power that makes it hesitate. But this chance is unlikely to ever come again._

 _The creature steps forward, slowly. The grass here feels different under paws, fresher, but the creature does not linger for long. There is no cover._

 _It runs, silently crossing through the field. It can still smell the_ new _— it's getting stronger now — and it heads towards that._

 _Towards the castle._

.oOo.

"How about you?" Salazar asks; she watches him with mild confusion, as if the question was unexpected. "Where are you staying?" Salazar clarifies. "Do you live near here?"

"Oh." She smiles; the gesture somehow seems both warm and self-depreciating. "I'm staying with a friend," she says vaguely, "not far from here." The way she says it, he thinks there might be a story behind the statement, but he doesn't press. After all, he doesn't want his own story known, so he can offer her the same courtesy he hopes she will give him. That she _has_ given him, he recalls suddenly; for the most part, at least.

He takes another sip of his drink — he thinks he might be getting used to it, as the flavour is no longer as vomit-inducing — and allows the silence to stretch on.

"Another?" she asks, setting her now-empty glass on the counter and eyeing his bottle; he's only drunk a little over half. He doesn't particularly want another — he doesn't particularly want the remainder of this one — but he nods anyway. A small part of him wants to keep this conversation going any way he can, but mostly he just has a petty vendetta against the bartender. He couldn't say why.

He drinks the rest quickly — and, yes, maybe he is trying to impress her a little, but really he's hoping the faster he drinks the less he'll taste. A second beer is placed on the bar beside him before he can finish the first, though he hadn't heard any words spoken between Helga and Abe. He nods his thanks, leaving the dregs of his old beer — there's little enough left that he can pretend he hadn't noticed it, and besides, he's never been one of those people who had to finish every last drop just to get their money's worth.

She takes a delicate sip of her drink — at that pace, he has no idea how she drank it so quickly — and smiles at him over the rim of her glass. "Are you trying to get my drunk Salazar?" she asks coyly, though she doesn't seem entirely serious.

"Surely I should be the one asking that?" he counters, wondering when he became so _stereotypical._ "You know the bartender?" he asks, hoping to move the conversation elsewhere.

She makes a non-committal noise of agreement and he begins scrounging around for a new topic, thinking she won't answer, when she says: "Me and Abe? We go way back." The way she says it sounds almost like a joke, but he can't think why. "We met at school," she clarifies, so he supposes it hadn't been a joke, after all — not that he thinks she's old, he amends quickly, even if she had no way of knowing his thoughts. She seems slightly younger than he is, though he supposes she could just have a young face, but she's definitely younger than Abe. Perhaps he had been her teacher?

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks. He stares at her like a deer caught in the headlights, wondering what he'd missed.

"I'm fine," he says, but he must not have been convincing enough — he doesn't know quite _why_ she needed the convincing — because she has turned the look of mild concern onto him once more.

"Tonight, I mean." He's still drawing a blank, so he gives an apologetic shrug — or what he hopes is an apologetic shrug, because really it's not that apologetic of a gesture. "You said you didn't have anywhere to stay."

"Ah." He supposes that is something she would be worried about; she seems the type — gentle and mothering and so very concerned — though he can sense there is more to her than that. "I've made do before," he says instead of letting her know all he's thinking.

" _Making do_ ," she says in a way that, coming from anyone else, would sound mocking, "is something reserved only for dire situations." He frowns. "I — my friend. She has a big house. You're welcome to stay in one of the rooms."

"I —" He stops himself moments before he can decline; yes, he could do well enough on his own, but it would be nice to sleep in a proper bed again. It had been so long. And if, maybe, something else were to … he stops the thought before it can fully form. "Thank you," he says instead, and she pushes away from the bar.

"Leaving so soon?" Abe calls, lips twisted up into an ugly smirk. He looks more like a Bond villain than anything else, Salazar thinks.

"It's late," Helga says with another of her gentle smiles, unperturbed. "You know it's not safe out."

.oOo.

 _The creature reaches the castle walls. The building is much bigger up close — more imposing — and threaded through with magic. Not like the barriers had been, though. This magic feels … almost_ nice. _Comforting. But that is not what it is after._

 _It rounds the castle, following the wall, until it reaches a large doorway. Here, it stops._

 _Bolted shut._

 _That, by itself, wouldn't hinder the beast. It has brute force on its side, and sheer determination. But there is also a magic woven into the wooden beams, holding them together and sealing the door._

 _It's no matter._

 _The creature may be strong and determined, but it is also clever. It will put those assets to good use._

 _There must be another way._

 _The creature paces, rounds the castle — one, two, three times — and then sits._

 _Why would such a large building only have the one door? Admittedly, the creature had never come across any castles before, but surely …_

 _It looks up._

 _An open window, curtains fluttering in the breeze. But no. There was no way to get up there, so the information is useless._

 _But …_

Perfect _._

 _This wall smells of the_ new _the creature had smelt before, but the_ new _is focussed mostly to one area. The_ new _must have touched here, and the wind had carried the scent further. The creature presses its nose where the_ new _smells strongest._

 _The wall_ falls _._

 _Backing away with a whimper, heart racing, the creature sinks down into a low crouch, waiting for an attack._

 _Nothing._

 _A few moments more pass, and the creature relaxes._

 _A few beats more, and the creature steps forward. Into the newly opened corridor._

.oOo.

She leads him down a winding road; there are deep grooves in the ground that suggest carriages might have frequented this route once, but they are covered over in grass and weeds, so it must have been many years since the last had passed through.

The walk is long and tedious — he was already tired and the beer had done little to quench his thirst; he's mildly tipsy, though he would never admit to being so off _two_ beers, and very hungry. He doesn't complain, though, still unwilling to show weakness around her.

"It's just around this corner," she reassures him, as though she had sensed his discomfort though he can see none of her own. In fact, she looks positively _cheerful_. "My friend will be asleep, though, and we mustn't wake her."

Rounding the corner, it is all he can do to stop his jaw from hitting the ground. She lives in a _castle_. And not in the way people sometimes say when a person lives in a very large mansion, but an actual _castle._ He didn't know they existed anymore, let alone served as living quarters.

Distantly, he wonders why he should be worried about waking her friend in a building so large, but that thought is overcome with _castle_.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asks, distracting him momentarily. He glances her way, but she is watching her feet as she walks. "It's been in my friends family for a very long time." How long, he doesn't ask, though he finds himself very curious. Crusades, he thinks, but in his mind _crusades_ is synonymous with _a very long time ago_ because he's not actually sure when they were. They have become more of an abstract idea over the years. "Let me show you to your rooms," she says, leading him away from the large front doors.

She presses a stone and the wall begins to fall away, a passage forming. "This way", she says, lifting a torch from just inside the new passageway. He doesn't know if it was already lit or if she lights it herself.

"Wouldn't it have been quieter to use the front door?" he asks once they are a good way into the corridor and underneath the castle, if the downwards incline wasn't something he had imagined.

"No," she says. "The front doors are locked this late. It's after curfew."

"Curfew?" he mouths. She either doesn't hear or chooses not to answer; he's more inclined to believe it's the latter.

The passageway ends in a simple wooden door, which is oddly disappointing. She opens it with a small key. There is a small flight of stairs — though flight may be a bit of a stretch for what is possibly ten steps — leading up, and a narrow ramp leading into what he presumes are the dungeons. She takes the stairs.

"We have spare rooms along this corridor," she says. He's a little disappointed — who spends the night in a castle and wants to stay on the ground floor? — but he doesn't say anything. "You're welcome to use any of the amenities come morning," she continues, "but you must stay in your room until sunrise." She sets the torch into one of the holders lining the walls. "You mustn't leave. Not for anything."

He thinks this is a bit of an odd request, and she's coming on perhaps a little too strong, but he agrees anyway. It's her house — or _castle,_ as the case may be — and surely she has her reasons. She's putting a stranger up for free, at the very least, so it's no hardship to remain in the one room. And, for all her knows, the request is for her benefit — perhaps it's the only way she feels comfortable with him being here? But somehow he thinks that's unlikely.

He waits for her to tell him which room he should use, but when she doesn't he rests his hand on the closest door-handle, looking to her for approval. She gives a single nod and turns to leave. Evidently her room is not in this corridor.

"Goodnight," he says to her retreating form. He thinks he hears a soft "goodnight" in return, but he might be mistaken.

.oOo.

 _The_ new _gets stronger the further it walks, though the scents of the castle still provide a vaguely familiar undercurrent. A feeling like deja vu washes over the creature, but it has little time or care for such things._

 _The corridor ends abruptly in a single arch. Upon further inspection, the creature sees that the door has simply been left open. It feels like an invitation._

 _With more confidence, the creature steps through, climbing the steps leading to the ground floor. The_ new _overpowers all else in this corridor._

 _The creature growls low in its throat, hackles rising and teeth bared. There is a vague stirring and the creature growls louder._

 _A door opens._

.oOo.

Salazar awakens with a cry of pain, curled up on the stone corridor outside his room. Helga stands above him, staring down at him with worry in her eyes. There's something else, too, but he is in too much pain to full register what it is.

"I told you to stay in your room," she says. There's an urgency to her words, but she seems less surprised than he'd have thought. He would have been a little shocked to say the least, if he saw a stranger potentially bleeding to death on the floor in his home. "The castle can't protect you if you open the door." That's a strange thing to say, he thinks; so strange, it momentarily distracts him from his pain.

Is she angry? Does she think this is his fault? Well, yes to the latter, but the first … no, he doesn't think she's angry.

"H — Hospital," he gasps, feeling blood welling in his mouth. He coughs, the feel and sound of liquid bubbling in his throat would have been more alarming had his vision not been fading so rapidly.

"I'm sorry," she says, though she doesn't sound overly apologetic. "I'm afraid you can't leave." He draws in another ragged breath, struggling for air.

And then, he sees it, clouded as his sight has become. It's in the slight gleam of her eyes, the tilt of her lip, the way she holds herself. None of which were present the night before.

She is happy.

And, for the first time since arriving at this strange place, he is afraid.

…oOo…

 _The danger is I'm dangerous_

 _And I might just tear you apart_


	24. A Rough Start — RoyaltyAU

_[Summary] — Druella/Cygnus (platonic) [Royalty!AU] Druella is sent to the Kingdom of Slytherin in an attempt to keep her safe, but her troubles have only just begun._

 **A/N** — This is based on the first episode of the BBC version of Merlin (though obviously a very condensed version). The lyrics are from Familiar Taste of Poison by Halestorm.

[2496]

* * *

 _I tell myself,_

 _That you're no good for me_

 _I wish you well,_

 _But desire never leaves_

…oOo…

"Mother, are you sure this is a good idea?" Druella asks, worried frown pulling down the corners of her lips. " _Slytherin_ , after all … it's … it's not safe for people like me."

Her mother cups Druella's face in her palms, kissing her cheek. "I know you're scared —" Druella would argue, but her mother's hold on her face makes talking a little difficult "— but it's really the best place you could go. Hiding in plain sight." Druella is unconvinced, and that must show on her expression because her mother continues: "It's not safe for you here, either. It's not safe for you anywhere. At least in Slytherin, there are people who might be able to help you. To _understand_."

Druella had heard tales, when she was a child, of parents who killed their children when they were like her. Who removed the stain on their family before it could become a problem. Who acted as if the child had never existed and carried on with their lives like normal. There were times she wished her mother had been one of those people. Mostly, however, she thinks she is better off the way she is.

She nods, pulling away. "I know, Mother," she sighed, because really she _did_ know. In this small village bordering the Kingdoms of Slytherin and Ravenclaw, it was so easy to tell who was different — who didn't belong — that she was lucky to have made it out of childhood at all, regardless of her mother's intervention.

"I'll miss you," she says, allowing herself a rare moment of openly-expressed emotion. "I won't like being so far away."

Her mother smiles, though her eyes are rapidly filling with tears. "I'm sure that's not true. You'll be having the time of your life. Your uncle lives in the castle —" she sniffs loudly "— isn't that exciting?" Druella nods again; she's not particularly excited about living in a castle — it seems awfully confining, especially for someone used to spending most of their time in the open fields or grassy hills — but she doesn't wish to upset her mother further.

"I suppose it might," she concedes. "And I haven't seen Uncle …" she trails off awkwardly.

"Horace, dear."

"Uncle Horace —" she nods her thanks "— in so long."

"He might not recognise you," her mother says, taking her chin in her hand once more and tilting her face, looking at her from different angles. "You've grown so beautiful." Druella knows this isn't true.

" _I_ might not recognise _him_ ," she counters. Her mothers only response is a slightly exasperated smile. "I can write to you?" she asks, unable to mask the insecurity in her tone, knowing that she must leave soon.

"Of course," is her mother's warm response. She wraps her daughter in her arms. "I'll find someone to read them to me."

Druella nods, her own eyes filling with tears now, though she hopes she is successful in hiding them, and gives her mother one final hug goodbye.

.oOo.

The town at the centre of Slytherin is nothing like she's ever seen before. There's so many people, and they're all in such a rush; the market place is crowded with more people than her entire village twice over has, and the area is a lot smaller than she had thought it would be. And the _smell_. Atrocious to say the least.

"Excuse me?" she asks a gentle looking woman. The woman turns an angry glare on her, eyes flashing gold in warning, and Druella backs up, spewing apologies. Slytherin is nothing like she's used to.

She struggles on, finding herself moving in the opposite direction of the majority of the crowd, struggling to keep her knapsack close and not have it disappear off with a stranger.

"Are you alright?" a man asks. He is much shorter than she expected.

"I — yes, I — thank you," she stutters; her mother had always taught her it was rude to stare, but this man is the size of a child. If it weren't for the clear signs of age to his face and his long beard he's likely have mistaken him for one. If she had merely glanced over, not hearing hims speak first, she's almost certain she would have. "I'm looking for my uncle," she says. "He's the court physician."

"You're Horace's niece?" the man asks, face lighting up with recognition. "He's spoken of nothing else all week." That would be nice, Druella thinks, had she known a week ago that she was coming here. As it is, it all feels a little too out of her control.

He nods and smiles politely, adjusting her pack on her shoulders. "Well, I suppose I mustn't keep him waiting."

"Yes, quite, quite," the little man nods, disappearing quickly into the crowd. She'd forgotten to ask his name. She turns quickly. "Watch where you're going, you great oaf!" she yells as she forcefully slams into another body.

"Who do you think you are?" a man snaps; she can tell from his clothing that he is rich, but that doesn't excuse bad manners. She willingly ignores the fact that she hadn't been paying attention either — at this point, she is hot and irritable and more than a little hungry. Her eyes travel up, landing on his face. Under any other circumstances, she might have found him attractive. As it is, he orders two of the men with him to seize her. So, naturally, she punches him.

Had she known he was the youngest prince of Slytherin, well … she'd probably have done exactly the same thing.

.oOo.

A rather rotund man steps up to the bars of her cell. "You must be Druella, I presume."

"Uncle Horace?" she asks; she doesn't recognise the man, but who else in Slytherin would know her name?

"You've made quite the entrance," he says. "Caused a bit of a stir in the market, you did."

"I'm sorry," she says, though she is not feeling particularly apologetic. "I didn't mean to."

"I'm sure you didn't, my dear."

"What happens now?" she asks; this is the one question anyone has yet to answer. "Am I to be hanged?"

"Of course not." She lets out a sigh of relied. "The king much prefers burnings." Suddenly, she is tense once more. "But I've spoken to the king — I'm his physician, you know — and we've come to an agreement."

"Oh?" She doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she can already feel them rising.

"Yes, you are to be released tomorrow."

"Really?" Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad here after all, her uncle clearly had some —

"After spending a day in the stocks."

Fantastic.

.oOo.

She trudges up to her uncles quarters sullenly, pulling bits of rotten fruit from her hair and leaving a trail of the _juices_ in her wake. It would have to be someone else's problem, she decides; she's suffered enough for one day. At least her uncle had managed to give her directions to his rooms before he'd left the guards to take her to the stocks. The one useful thing he'd done since she got here.

If it ever came down to this choice again, she'd probably choose the fire. People had brought potatoes to throw at her. _Potatoes._

"Oh, what is that smell?" Horace says by way of greeting.

"That would be me, uncle."

"Did you not bathe?"

She doesn't deign this with a response. Instead, she says: "Might I go to bed, please?"

"Not smelling like that, good heavens no," he says, pulling out his wand and muttering a quick scouring charm. He seems rusty — the spell does the job, for the most part, but it is not particularly refined, and still leaves bits of the fruit behind — and she imagines how she could have done better, had she …

But, she supposes, what is left will be easy enough to deal with. "Now," he says, pocketing his wand. "I need you to deliver these to Mrs Figg."

"But Uncle —"

"Your mother had said you'd be useful to have around. That you are a hard working girl. Helpful. That you're —"

"Yes, of course, Uncle," she sighs. She hadn't considered how much trouble her mother must have gone through to convince him to agree to this. "Where will I find her?"

"She lives in the village," he says vaguely, handing her a small vial. "Tell her not to drink it all at once." And then her uncle is leaving, carrying a basket full of other such vials. She presumes Mrs Figg must have been a bit out of her uncle's way.

With a sigh, Druella resigns herself to another long day.

.oOo.

She considers penning a letter to her mother, but what would she say? That within five minutes she'd punched the kings youngest son? That she's spent her first night in the dungeons and her first full day in the stocks? Her mother would be livid. Whatever punishment the king would come up with if he were to ever find out what she was would pale in comparison.

She decides against writing a letter. Perhaps it would be best to wait until she has something a little more positive to say. And besides, her uncle is already calling her.

"Yes Uncle Horace?" she asks, pushing aside the loose scrap of parchment she had found. "Did you need some help?"

"No, no," he mutters. "You are to attend the feast tonight." This is the first she's hearing of a feast. "Everyone living in the castle is expected to go," he continues, "to welcome the visiting royals from Gryffindor. It's a rather momentous occasion." She tunes out; she's heard plenty on the rivalry between the two kingdoms, and her uncle had the ability to make even the most interesting of topics sound boring with his slight _embellishments._ Somehow, he always manages to be of great importance in these stories, and she is not in the mood to hear about how he personally brought about the union between the two kingdoms, or other such nonsense he's likely to spew when he gets like this.

She nods, humming noncommittally whenever there's a long pause, and it seems to be enough.

"Well?" he asks, looking at her expectantly. Perhaps she hadn't been as subtle as she'd thought.

"Sorry, Uncle?"

"Aren't you going to change? You can't be expecting to wear that to a feast, surely."

She looks down at her simple dress; it's a bit worn, and perhaps a little stained, but it's one of the finer things she owns and she doesn't see the problem with it. She tells her uncle as much.

He _tsks_ disapprovingly — but really, what had he expected? — but brushes it off. "No matter, I suppose. No one will be looking at you." If she had been perhaps a little more vain the comment might have stung, but as it is she barely suppresses an eye-role and asks:

"When is the feast?"

"Well, now, of course," he says. She is left to wonder how her uncle had managed to survive into old age. She wasn't an imbecile: there was a potion in the beginning stages of brewing, one her mother made frequently, that needed constant stirring. He had forgotten.

.oOo.

The feast is every bit as dull as she had thought it would be — in the few moments before it'd started that she'd been aware there _was_ a feast, that is — with various royals and nobles making idle chat and treating even the most trivial conversation as if it were of the utmost importance.

She stifles a yawn. Or tries to. Her uncle shoots her a glare that promises later retribution if she continues to look bored. Standing straighter, she tries to wake herself up by opening her eyes wide and holding herself stiff. She may just look like a lunatic, though, if the wide berth one of the serving girls gives her as she passes is any indication.

Ah, well. She watches the girl as she makes her way across the room, hoping she might trip at the very least. Anything to break up the monotony of this feast. She didn't know how the inhabitants could stand this; she'd been told these feasts were far from a rare occurrence.

The serving girl doesn't trip. She proves far more entertaining than that.

Druella finds herself moving before she's even registered that something is wrong, running towards the youngest prince.

She pushes him, and he hits the stone floor _hard_. There is yelling and accusations, all thrown in her direction, and she can't quite say she doesn't deserve it, because she had technically attacked the prince for the second time that week. Her new life in Slytherin was off to a phenomenal start.

The king stands slowly.

"You — you have saved my son's life," he says. _What?_ She turns, looking to where he is indicating. There is a knife embedded in the prince's chair, right where his head had been. She hadn't even fully registered that the serving girl had thrown a knife. "You will receive a reward, of course," the king continues.

"Oh, no, that's alright," she mutters. The prince looks a spectacular combination of indignant, enraged and absolutely mortified, and she finds that payment enough.

"You will be rewarded to your service to the Kingdom of Slytherin," he says.

"Well, if you insist." Who was she to turn down a reward from the king?

"You are to be appointed prince Cygnus' official Sorcerer." Well, she supposes, it might have been an honour if the prince hadn't been an utter prat. That, and the fact that she has a distinct lack of any magical ability.

She meets her uncle's eyes across the room; he is watching her with that look of his that so clearly says 'only you could manage this' which is, unfortunately, becoming all too familiar.

A not so insignificant part of her is excited for this new role — not the part where she is forced to serve the prince directly, but the part where she can claim to have _magic_ — though she knows it is very unlikely she will have it for long. As soon as the king realises she is a squib, she will be killed, her death made even more gruesome by the fact that she had managed to gain a position of such importance in the royal household.

But, in her defence, people just assumed you had magic until proven otherwise. And a lot of people didn't even _bother_ with magic in their everyday lives — a terrible waste of skill, in her opinion.

Well, she thinks, it's about time she figures out how to properly fake being a witch, anyway. Perhaps her uncle would help?

She risks another glance, but he is looking increasingly more irritated with each passing second.

For now, she is on her own.

…oOo…

 _I can fight this to the end_


	25. The Shadows — RefugeeAU

_[summary] — Marius/OC [Refugee!AU] He was one of the lucky ones, he knew that. Others hadn't fared so well._

 **A/N** — Okay, so the Refugee!AU thing may be a bit of a stretch, but I write post-apocalypse too much.

Written for the Hogwarts Houses comp with the prompt reading. And thanks to PV (What'dIMiss) for looking through this :)

The lyrics are from the song Dirty Laundry by All Time Low.

[1920]

* * *

 _Dirty laundry is piling in her room_

 _She's got her secrets, yeah I got mine too_

.oOo.

He was one of the lucky ones, he knew that. Others hadn't fared so well.

But dwelling on their past wasn't something they did here. This was as close to a fresh start as they could get. It's a safe place for people like him — the unwanted, the abused — where they can seek shelter and maybe a cooked meal before they move on.

He's been here for longer than most. Over a decade, now.

"Marius, isn't it?" a girl calls. He doesn't know her name — he'd stopped asking some time in the first year; it was easier this way — but he recognises her face. "That's what they call you." He nods. It's his real name — he'd been young when he first arrived and it hadn't occurred to him to lie — but she doesn't need to know that. "They said you'd give me a job," she says slowly, looking more unsure with each word. "That I could stay for as long as I helped out?" He nods again, pointing towards the kitchen.

She leaves quickly, scuttling away like she's just been reprimanded after misbehaving in front of a teacher. He pays it no mind — it's a pretty standard reaction to him at this point — and makes his way to his room. It's more of an out-house really — _shed_ is not a word he lets enter his mind — with sheets of metal leant up against what was once the original structure in a half-hearted attempt at keeping out the weather.

He doesn't have a door anymore, just a thin curtain that he has to replace every time the weather gets too bad since someone stole the old tabletop he'd been using before, but it's still more private than most are offered here. He pushes the curtain aside and steps into the dim interior of his room. His bed is just three wooden pallets pushed into the corner and covered in as many old sheets as he could scrounge up over the years, but he can easily remember when he had to sleep on the floor, and many still do.

People call his room the product of favouritism — that because he's been here so long, the Founders give him the first choice in whatever they manage to salvage — but he knows that it is the product of his own hard work. You don't get anything for free, least of all here.

He pulls a battered book out from underneath one of the pallets. He doesn't know what it is — he can't read — but it's mostly pictures anyway, and the story seems to progress through them. Someone had called it a maga once, but he's long forgotten who; just one of the many faces passing through. Whatever it is, it's printed on paper which is rare enough, and most of the pages seem to be there, even if they're dirty and faded and torn.

There's a gentle knock on one of the metal sheets and his entire room shakes from it. The structure's not doing too good, he thinks distantly, but mostly he's just annoyed. Why would someone need to come to his _room_? It's one of the unwritten rules of the camp: don't disturb other people's space. It's such a rare commodity.

He shoves his book back under the pallets, making sure it's hidden, and snaps: "What?" The girl from before is peeking around the curtain already, and he really hopes she didn't see his book — with such little to go around, no one is above stealing — but her eyes are on her feet so he thinks he might be okay.

"I — I'm sorry," she stutters. "I just — I wanted to see if you needed any help."

"I — what?" he asks. "Why would I need help?"

"Everyone needs help sometimes," she says, gaining more confidence. "I just wanted to know if you needed anything."

"No," he snaps. "Get out."

"Right. I — sorry, it's just that … that everyone came back this time and —"

"What?" he interrupts, standing quickly. " _Everyone?"_ It's a rare occurrence _anyone_ comes back from the scouting missions, so rare that people are usually only sent on them when there's too many people at the camp to feed. The old and the sick sent out to die in a way people can pretend isn't intentional. "Are you sure?"

She nods, swallowing audibly. "Y-yeah, they're uh … they're all at the gates. There's uhm … not enough food." He thinks she might have been about to say something else, but doesn't bother asking.

Instead, he strides past her, leaving her standing just outside his room looking dazed and confused and, underneath it all, mildly irritated.

It's not far from his room to the gates. No one knows what used to be here, but the gates are one of the few things in the camp that's aptly named — wrought iron that's at least two stories high; though whatever wall that used to be attached to them is long gone. Now, the gates just stand tall in the centre of camp. There isn't enough material to waste on a wall. It's not like it would be much use, anyway.

And she had been right. At least, he thinks she had. No one really counts the number of people sent out each month, but a group of at least ten — all elderly or infirm — stand just beneath the gates. They've attracted quite the crowd.

People step aside as the five Founders make their way to the group. In the beginning, it is said there were only four — all long dead now — one for each of the four walls. Marius had always suspected that the camp didn't used to be centred on the gate, but rather contained by the walls it must have once been a part of. But now, the four walls are what they refer to as the four main buildings, each of which is run by one of the Founders, and the fifth Founder runs the entire camp. Marius' room technically falls under the West Wall.

He can't hear what they're saying, but it's clear that they're talking to those who have returned. Marius briefly considers pushing his way to the front, but thinks better of it. He didn't survive this long by drawing unneeded attention to himself.

"I heard you're like me," the girl whispers. She's persistent, he'll give her that. Annoyingly so, but it's a lot more than others have been able to claim. Most people here are just floating through life — sometimes, he thinks he is one of those people — but this girl seems … more _engaged_ somehow. Awkward and unsure, of course, but there's a quiet confidence to her that contradicts a lot of her behaviour.

He doesn't ask about that. Instead, he says: "How so?" He doesn't turn his attention from the Founders.

"Well," she says, "you see more." He allows his eyes to flick quickly in her direction. "You're … different."

"Because I'm old?" he asks, his tone indifferent.

"You're not — you're not old." He wonders at that — where could she possible have come from to think twenty-one wasn't old? most people didn't make it to sixteen — but again, he doesn't ask. He'll allow her to keep her secrets, because he knows he wants to keep his. "I'm … I'm twenty-four," she whispers. He looks at her then, and he's sure the shock is written plainly across his face.

" _How_?"

"Well, I — where I come from … we have better defences, I guess," she says, shrugging.

"You can't keep them out," he says; his voice is too loud, he knows that, but for once he is struggling to keep his words low, to the point. "They're … _different"_ he parrots her word back at her, unable to think of something better.

"So are we," she whispers, smirking.

"Why are you here?" he asks, well past the point of being able to stop himself. "Why come here if where you were before was so safe?"

"Because," she says, giving him a conspiratorial look as if he has any idea what's going on, "things are changing."

"What did you do?" he asks. "Did you do something? Is this because —"

"There's not enough people." She takes his arm, pulling him away from the crowd. "They're dying out."

"We have been for years," he snaps, "I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

"Not you. Not us," she corrects. " _Them._ The shadows." He'd heard tales of the shadows — they were a large part of the reason he'd never left the camp since he got here — but no one really believed in those stories. Stories of shadows that sucked a persons soul, leaving them as just a shell of what they once were, unable to do anything — eat, sleep, move — until they eventually died. Stories where death became a mercy, and escape for being trapped in your own body, there but not there. He shakes his head.

"The shadows aren't real."

She smirks. "Do you want to find out? For sure?" No, he really doesn't. Not even a little bit. He says as much and she only laughs. "Well you're going to," she says, "if you stay here."

"If they wanted to come into camp they would have a long time ago," he says, setting his jaw in a stubborn line. "I don't see why that would ever change."

"Because they're _hungry._ " The way she says it shows a little too much joy, a little too much amusement at this situation.

"Wait," he says, struck by a sudden thought, "why are you only telling me? Why not tell the Founders?"

She laughs again, but this time it sounds decidedly cruel. "You're not like them. _We're_ not like them. Muggleborns and Half-bloods who've forgotten what they are." He shakes his head — these words are stranger than the maga the man had once called his book — and waits for an explanation. She doesn't give one. "You must remember where you lived before this." He shakes his head, feeling decidedly stupid. He's not used to being the one unsure. "Oh," she looks sad, almost pitying, "did the shadows come? Is that why you're here?"

"Look," he snaps, "you're clearly insane, so I —"

"They like magic best," she says; he can barely refrain from rolling his eyes, "so we're immune. But the magic's dying out. And it's taking them with it."

"So you're saying —"

" _Look_ ," she says, in a way that makes him feel like he's being mocked, "it's a really easy decision. Stay or go. Doesn't matter what I say, does it?"

He takes a moment to think about it, because she's right — certifiably insane as she may be, she's somehow still right — it doesn't matter. He can stay in this monotonous existence, praying that one day he won't have outgrown his use and be sent off to almost certain death. Or …

"They called themselves pure," he says, though he wasn't sure why he was telling her this, adding "my family" at her confused look. "I don't really remember them. It was dark, and when I woke up …"

Or, he can leave of his own free will. Everything he's done up until now has been forced upon him — through fear, necessity or just an inherent need to stay close to what is familiar.

She nods, understanding. And ultimately, it's an easy decision.

.oOo.

 _I don't care about what you did_

 _Only care about what we do_


	26. The First Step — FrankensteinAU

_[summary] — Albus &Gellert [Frankenstein!AU] Albus stood in silence, eyes downcast, as his mother stepped to the front of the crowd, turning to face their friends and family. It wasn't a big turn-out, but more people had wanted to remember his father than Albus had expected._

 **Warnings** for medical stuff (I couldn't avoid things entirely because of the parameters of the AU, but I have glossed over enough details to keep it at a T rating)

 **A/N** — I might come back to this later as there's more I wanted to write, but I only had room within the word limit for the first section, and where I've left it felt like an ending.

Written for Houses [g] short using the funeral prompt.

[2150]

* * *

Albus stood in silence, eyes downcast, as his mother stepped to the front of the crowd, turning to face their friends and family. It wasn't a big turn-out, but more people had wanted to remember his father than Albus had expected.

She took a deep breath, her eyes surprisingly dry and her expression composed, and began: "I'm glad you could all come here today." Albus' attention drifted; he was normally better at paying attention, even if it were to generic speeches — though, really, her husband was dead; Albus had thought she'd be able to bring up a little emotion — but today he couldn't even bring himself to pretend to listen.

A distant aunt — or perhaps great-aunt? — wrapped her arm around his shoulders; it was a bit of a stretch for her, given how he was almost a foot taller. "It's okay to be upset, dear."

Albus nodded, giving her a tight smile, and muttered a quick, "Thank you," an idea already forming as he looked around the graveyard.

.oOo.

He waited until everyone else had fallen asleep; that in itself wasn't unusual — he was almost always working away at his experiments well into the night whilst his family slept — but tonight he had made the conscious decision to do so.

There was only one more thing he needed, and now he knew _exactly_ where he could get it from.

When he was sure everyone was definitely asleep — and had waited a good hour after that — he quietly descended the stairs and slipped on his boots. The front door was a little more tricky, but he managed to open it silently by going as slowly as he possible could, pausing at even the slightest of sounds.

He didn't bother locking the door, just closed it as carefully as he'd opened it and, stuffing his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold, quietly walked down the street.

It was strange being out so late — or perhaps early? he wasn't sure — as even in such a small town, things felt very different at night. Almost as if the darkness was pressing down on him, muffling the world around him; he found it oddly comforting, even as the chill air turned his ears and nose a painful red.

No matter how peaceful he found the night — with its empty streets and calming quiet — he was still thankful the graveyard was only a five minute walk from his house.

He found the grave easily — it was the only fresh one, and he'd been there earlier in the day, after all — and stopped when he reached the marker.

 _Percival Dumbledore_

 _1860-1894_

There were no personal touches — Albus wasn't even sure the date of birth was correct — but it was of no importance. Albus pulled his wand from his robes, double checking that no one was around; it wasn't Muggles he was worried about as this was the wizarding area of the cemetery, but anyone who saw him would be immediately suspicious if they were witness to what he was about to do. There was only so much that could be passed off as the actions of a grieving son.

When he was satisfied that there was no one about, Albus waved his wand and muttered a quiet incantation, parting the earth and exposing his father's coffin.

Taking a deep breath, Albus pressed on; this wasn't exactly something he was happy about doing, but he couldn't let that stop him now. Not when he was so close.

Opening the coffin was harder than he'd anticipated — and it didn't so much open as _split_ — but it was far from the worst thing he'd have to do tonight.

.oOo.

The walk back to his house went much more quickly — mostly because he'd run — but slipping through the front door was a lot more stressful than it had been the first time; at least then, he'd have been able to explain it away as needing some fresh air or a stroll to clear his thoughts. Now, his mother would probably have him committed.

He snuck into the house and up the stairs without incident, though his heart was pounding and his breathing laboured. Setting it down on the matt he'd left on his desk specifically for this purpose, Albus went about casting the appropriate cooling and preserving charms.

There was no guarantee this would work — all his tests had ended with somewhat mixed results — so he needed to be as careful as possible.

He pushed his mattress to the side, having taken it from his bed so that he had somewhere to sleep when he'd begun all this, and pulled his bed into the middle of his room to give him access to all sides. It was a little cramp and far from ideal, but it was the best he could hope for.

With a grand gesture, mostly for his own entertainment, he removed the sheet from the bed, revealing the body underneath.

It was admittedly a somewhat shoddy job; he hadn't been able to get all the parts from the same source, so he'd had to choose the best pieces from different bodies, and Albus had learnt to sew on the job, so to speak. His earlier work was rather obvious, and in places he'd had to go over it again when he'd gained more skill so as to avoid any accidental seam-rips, but he thought his most recent attempts had been somewhat passable.

Regardless, his creature, as he'd taken to calling it, was far from pretty. Originally, Albus had intended to use glamours to mask that, but he didn't see the point in trying that yet. He hadn't quite finished.

He walked around the bed until he was standing behind his creature's head, and lifted the back of his skull away; he'd cut it earlier, needing to remove the original brain. There had been something wrong with it, he knew that much, and he hadn't wanted to risk it contaminating the rest of the body — he really didn't want to have to begin _again,_ as this had been a long time coming — but he wasn't entirely sure how the science of it worked.

With a wave of his wand, he levitated the brain from his desk, carefully guiding it into the open cavity. Connecting everything properly was the hard part — he'd only been successful about fifty percent of the time, and never on something entirely human — and so it required all of his concentration.

He could feel sweat dripping from his brow, beads rolling down his face, but he couldn't risk brushing is away lest he break his concentration.

It may have been hours or merely minutes when he was finally satisfied with his work, but he had no way of telling if he had been successful. Not yet, anyway.

He reapplied the charms just to be sure, put the sheet back in place and pushed his bed back against the wall. All he could do now was wait.

.oOo.

A storm hit town a few weeks later, the rumble of thunder pulling Albus from a light sleep; he hadn't been able to sleep properly since he'd begun all this, too preoccupied with thoughts of his creature.

He was quick to get to his feet, grabbing his wand and using it to practically throw his mattress out of the way. He was a lot more careful moving the bed. He left his creature, however, as there was still one last thing he needed to do, and he didn't want to inadvertently damage it in the process.

Opening his window as quietly as possible, Albus slipped his wand between his teeth and picked up one end of each of the coiled cables on the floor before he climbed through. The rain had made the roof a lot slicker than he was used to, but he'd practiced this enough times that he knew exactly where to put his hands and feet to give himself the most stability. He'd only ever fallen twice like this.

He almost lost his footing when he reached the gutter — he hadn't quite calculated correctly the affect the added weight of the rainwater would have — but he managed to catch himself just in time, and didn't drop his wand or, more importantly, the cables. He wasn't sure how long the storm would last, and he couldn't risk having to go back for them, as levitating would mean he'd have no control on what happened to the other ends — best case scenario, he'd have to carry them back inside with him, worst case they'd knock something important out of place in their flailing and he'd have to start over.

Letting out a relieved sigh when his feet touched the main roof, Albus only allowed himself the briefest of pauses before he was crawling carefully towards the metal spike he'd put up back when he'd first begun the experiments.

He wrapped each cable around it, one at a time, using magic to carefully seal them place, and only moved onto the next cable when he was sure of the first's security. It was a long process, and Albus was completely soaked through, his hands slipping every so often on the smooth metal, but he persevered.

And, when all the cables were attacked to his satisfaction, Albus used his wand to extend the spike high into the air; he didn't bother with concealing charms — if anyone were awake to witness this, they would see whatever was about to happen regardless of what he did to try and hide it — but he did use magic to reinforce to strength of the metal.

Getting back inside was a lot easer, now that he had full use of both his hands.

Albus didn't bother drying off; as soon as his feet hit the carpeted floor of his bedroom, he set to work.

Using the pins he'd already inserted into his creature, Albus connected cables — one on each joint, and two on either side of the head and chest — pushing the pins further into his creature once he'd wrapped each cable around them so that everything but the part with the cable around it was inside his creature.

Only then did he remove the ring from his finger; it was an ugly thing, but he found it quite fitting for his creature, and really it was the stone that was important. The stone held more power than everything in Hogwarts put together; the stone was the only reason this was possible.

He slipped it onto his creatures finger, and waited. He needed to time this perfectly.

A rumble of thunder sounded, and Albus turned the ring once, twice. On the third rotation, lightening struck, sending Albus flying clear across the room.

His head hit the wall with such force that his vision clouded and a ringing noise picked up in his ears; he thought he heard a groan — most likely his own — before he faded into unconsciousness.

.oOo.

Albus stretched, letting out a high-pitched moan, and slowly blinked open his eyes. He reached, almost blindly, for his glasses. "Thank you," he muttered when they were passed directly into his searching hand; he was too exhausted to tell his brother to stay out of his room.

He put them on, rubbing his forehead as he waited for his vision to clear. And was met with a _very_ unsettling sight when it finally did.

His creature — though he supposed it was about time he came up with a name for it — was crouched in front of him, grinning in a way that showed off his decayed teeth. The golden curls — Albus' primary reason for his choice in heads — were matted and greying, bald patches visible on his creatures scalp where they had fallen out in clumps despite Albus' best efforts to preserve as much as he could.

Its joints moved stiffly, but Albus supposed that could have been down to a number of factors. He hadn't been able to repurpose more than one thing from each body, so they were a little mismatched, but the pins and cables still tethering his creature to the roof certainly couldn't have helped.

But these were all things Albus could work on later, because it _had_ worked.

It wasn't quite resurrection, if his creature's blank stare and slurred attempts at speech — Albus was reminded of the groaning he'd heard just before he'd passed out — were anything to go by, but it was definitely a step in the right direction.

Albus took a deep breath and immediately regretted it — his creature smelled exactly as it was; _dead._ "Gellert," he said decisively. His creature tipped its head to the side; good. It could hear. "I think your name shall be Gellert."


	27. Summer of '75 — TutorAU

_[summary] — Lucius/Narcissa [Tutor!AU] Narcissa looked around the ostentatious room with dread; she came from money, but this was ridiculous._

 **A/N** — Written for Houses [g] short with the prompt Lucius/Narcissa. Lucius is also younger than Narcissa here (she's already graduated at the time of this story), but Lucius' age is the only one altered.

And a massive thank you to Raven and Beks for taking the time to beta this :D

[2500]

* * *

 _week one_

Narcissa looked around the ostentatious room with dread; _she_ came from money, but this was ridiculous. There was silver and crystal everywhere, the room — which should have felt pleasant, with the amount on natural lighting that filtered in through the large front windows — felt cold.

One of the two house-elves stood watching her, the other having presumably gone to retrieve its mistress. She tried giving it a smile, a vague upturn of her lips that felt more like a grimace, but the thing just glared at her, standing straighter, and watched her every move even more intently. She was almost relieved when the second creature finally returned, and they led her off to a little side room — almost, for now she was faced with the lady of the house.

This woman matched the interior perfectly. She was beautiful — there was no doubt about that — but she held herself with such a cold detachment that it was almost impossible to believe that she had raised a child. Though, she supposed, any child growing up in this lavish, unwelcoming house must be just that — lavish and unwelcoming.

The boy was led in through a different door at the other side of the little room by a third house-elf, this one much smaller than the other two — possibly younger; it looked as though it might actually belong to the boy, which was a concept that baffled her. What would a _child_ need with their own house-elf?

He spoke with the same polite detachment as his mother — she was not really listening to his words, but years of practice found her almost unconsciously responding to his words with polite small talk of her own. He didn't seem too bad, she supposed. No worse than she had been at that age, at least.

"Well, that's all. You had best begin. We're paying you by the hour, after all," the woman said with a patronising little smile, and watched as the house-elves ushered them from the room and through the door the boy had entered. This room appeared to be a small study; a large desk was against the far wall, in front of the large window, and bookshelves took up both the adjoining walls. The boy immediately pulled out the large, comfortable chair at the desk, claiming it for himself. That left her with the rickety little stool that had obviously been hastily placed there for this session.

He watched her slowly take her own seat, his grey eyes narrowed in a smirk his mouth was barely showing.

"You don't remember my name, do you?" he asked blandly, chuckling slightly at the expression she must have been pulling. She'd memorised his name — of _course_ she had — but she'd forgotten it as soon as she'd seen the mansion he lived in.

"Of course I know your name, Mister Malfoy," she said, raising her chin, her mouth pursed in annoyance.

"You know my family name, but do you know _my_ name?" he said, still in that infuriatingly bland tone, not even bothering to look at her.

This was going to be a long summer, she thought with a barely audible sigh, setting her handbag onto her lap and searching through the contents. She'd magically expanded the inside herself — there were shops you could go to where all the bags came pre-expanded, but she'd never cared for their style or trusted their abilities — so she'd managed to fit all the textbooks they could possibly need into the small bag.

"History of Magic," she said, pulling out a new copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ and setting it onto the desk. "I assume you've already read that one," she added. She could see the boy scowl and roll his eyes out of the corner of her eye; she imagined his own copy hadn't even been opened, which is why it was the first book she'd bought for him when his mother had given her the funds for any materials they'd need.

"I know the history of Hogwarts," he muttered sullenly.

"Oh, that's good," she said, pulling a second, much larger text book out of her bag, "because we're looking at the history of the _spells_ that make up Hogwarts." She hid a smirk at his stifled groan.

.oOo.

 _week two_

One of the house-elves led her straight to the study off the side-room — she'd learnt that the side-room was the _boy's_ greeting room, and the study belonged solely to him — and she was left alone to wait for him.

Eyeing the stool warily, Narcissa checked the large clock on the wall opposite the desk. She was exactly on time, though she had the feeling the boy was running a little late.

She pulled out her wand and, with a slight flick of her wrist and a muttered incantation, she transfigured the stool into a plush armchair. She was gracious enough to ensure that it matched the interior of the room — the crushed velvet a Slytherin green, and the wooden accents on the arms and feet made of dark mahogany.

It was larger than the boy's chair, and certainly more comfortable. She sat down, a smug upturn to the corners of her lips, and waited.

It didn't take him long to appear.

He froze in the doorway, eyes narrowed, and asked: "What is this?"

"Well," Narcissa said, tucking one foot behind the opposite ankle and leaning forward slightly, hands clasped delicately in her lap. "your last lesson didn't seem to go overly well." She ignored his huffed complaint. "Since I'm going to be here the entire summer, I thought I might as well be comfortable."

He stifled an irritated sigh and sat heavily in the chair next to her; she was taller than him now, she thought with petty smugness.

"Where are your books?" she asked. He sighed and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk; Narcissa frowned at that — had he not been practicing? She asked him as much.

"I don't know what this means," he said, turning to a page near the beginning of the first chapter and gesturing vaguely.

"And you've been stuck on this all week?" she asked, irritation clear in her voice. He nodded. "Why didn't you owl me?"

He shrugged and said: "You're paid to come to my house. Why would I need to owl you?" Narcissa took a deep breath, trying to calm the anger and irritation building in her chest. She could feel a vein pulsing on her forehead.

"Next time," she said through gritted teeth, "you _will_ owl me if you have any problems." She could practically _see_ the barely suppressed eye roll, even if he didn't actually follow through with the action. "Now," she said, her tone a little calmer now, "I suppose we'd better go over last week's lesson again."

This time, he did roll his eyes.

.oOo.

 _week three_

"Well, you're certainly doing a lot better," Narcissa said, though she couldn't keep the slight doubt from her tone. He scowled down at the book, a slight reddish hue colouring his cheeks.

"When do we get onto the real stuff?" he said. "This is just reading. It's boring." A moment later, he added, most likely in an effort to sound less like a whining child: "There's only so much you can learn from books."

"Yes," she said, nodding decisively, "you are absolutely right. And of course you will learn the associated spells..." She paused, watching the spark of excitement begin to form in his eyes. "At Hogwarts, where you can be monitored properly and pose the least amount of risk to yourself and those around you," she finished smugly. She'd found out a few years ago that the Trace didn't work properly in areas already heavily populated with magic, but she felt no need to tell him that. "On to chapter two then?" she asked with patronising cheer.

He opened the textbook with considerably more force than necessary, the cover slamming onto the desk with a _bang_. Narcissa smiled demurely at that, which only seemed to irritate him further.

.oOo.

 _week four_

Mere hours before she was supposed to be at the Malfoy residence for their weekly tutoring sessions, Narcissa received an owl from the lady of the house.

 _Dearest Narcissa,_

She cringed at the addressal.

 _Lucius —_

'Ah, yes,' she thought, 'that was the boy's name.'

 _Lucius will be unable to attend this week's lesson, or that of the following week, due to a family holiday in the south of France. Lessons will resume as normal on the third week._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Lord and Lady Malfoy_.

Narcissa crumpled up the letter in annoyance and threw it into the far corner of her room.

.oOo.

 _week five_

Narcissa felt dread fill her at the sight of the Malfoy family owl tapping on her bedroom window. Slowly, she opened the latch, praying that it wasn't another last-minute change of plans — she was under no illusions that the Malfoys hadn't known well in advance about their holiday.

The owl hopped through the narrow opening she allowed it and extended a leg with a scrap of parchment tied to it with string. Narcissa frowned; it didn't look like anything the Malfoys would stoop to sending.

 _Narcissa,_

She read in a surprisingly messy scrawl.

 _Finished the second chapter. Now what?_

 _Lucius_

Narcissa sighed, grabbing a quill off her desk, and turned the parchment over to write on the back:

 _L,_

 _Chapter 3_

 _N_

.oOo.

 _week six_

Lucius was waiting for her when she arrived. She checked the wall clock as subtly as she could, but she was exactly on time. The textbook was already out on the desk, opened to a page about a quarter of the way through.

"I don't understand this," he said, indicating an underlined section. Narcissa cringed — she'd always hated it when people wrote in books — but leant closer, nonetheless.

"This is chapter ten," she said, staring blankly at the top of the page.

"Yeah." Lucius shrugged, a clear attempt at a brush-off, though she could see the slight pride on his face. "We go to the same place every summer; it gets a little boring. It's mostly just to see the family we have over there."

"Well," she said, "it's impressive how much progress you've made in a week."

His cheeks darkened and he looked away, though he couldn't hide the smile stretched across his face. "Thanks," he muttered, then shrugged again. "I'm still stuck, though."

"That," she said, opening her bag and beginning to search through its contents, "is because you need _this_ —" she pulled a heavy tome from within its depths, setting the old book on the desk in front of him "— for the proper translations."

Lucius groaned, all traces of pride at his accomplishments vanishing from his face.

.oOo.

 _week seven_

"Do you remember me from school?" Lucius asked abruptly, startling Narcissa. She had thought he was concentrating on his work, but she supposed at this point she should have known better.

She sighed, closing her own book — a well-read copy of The Lord of the Rings; not many people knew that Tolkien had been a wizard — and set it to the side. She shouldn't have been reading her book during their lesson, but he had proven better at retaining knowledge when she left him to it, only stepping in to supply suggestions or answers whenever he reached something he couldn't figure out for himself.

"Should I?" she asked slowly.

He looked a little disappointed, but said: "You were a Prefect in my first year. Showed us to the common room." He paused for a moment, giving her enough time to start to think he was expecting a reply — did he think that was enough information to go on? — before he said: "I didn't see you much, anyway. I was very well-behaved."

Somehow, she doubted that.

.oOo.

 _week eight_

"This is the last week," he said by way of greeting.

She took her time getting seated, arranging her skirt with unnecessary attention to detail, before she said: "I know."

"So shouldn't we be finishing the book?"

"No," she said, staring at him in confusion. "How much do you think you'd feasibly be able to retain?" He shrugged, so she continued: "We only needed to complete the first section of the book," she said. "Five chapters would have been enough. Your mother only wanted you to surpass those in your own year, not reach NEWT level."

"Is this stuff taught at NEWTs?" he asked.

"Some of it."

He seemed to take a moment to think. "Will —" he paused, looking nervous; there was a slight flush to his cheeks, though she wasn't sure what he had to be embarrassed about. "So, I suppose this is the last time I'll see you?"

Narcissa frowned; she hadn't got the impression he'd particularly enjoyed their sessions. "It doesn't have to be," she said, though realistically she knew they would likely only meet at formal events. Even then, it was very unlikely they'd actually _speak_ to one-another.

He must have known this, but he nodded anyway, expression a little wistful, and turned back to the book.

.oOo.

 _five years later_

The affair was quite dull, when compared to some of the extravagant events she'd been to recently. She had expected better from her eldest sister's wedding, but she supposed Bellatrix had always opted to steer away from the norm.

The colours were somewhat muted — not quite dark shades, but definitely not the bright and cheerful colours expected of a summer wedding — and the decorations kept to a minimum. Bellatrix, however, was nothing short of radiating. All eyes were on her — which, Narcissa supposed, had probably been the intention — as she practically _glided_ about the room in her off-white gown, her dark curls cascading about her shoulders. Narcissa found herself glad that her sister had ignored her advice, opting to keep her hair down and forgo a veil.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, fingers cool against her bare skin, and she turned to face possibly the most beautiful man she had ever met, though there was something about his face … he wasn't quite familiar, but perhaps she knew a relative? "May I have this dance?" he asked, a smug tilt to the corners of his mouth.

She smiled demurely and simply nodded, placing her hand delicately in his. He was perhaps five years younger than she was, though she supposed there was no reason he needed to know that.

He pulled her closer to him than was strictly appropriate, and whispered into her ear: "You don't remember my name, do you?" The smirk was clearly audible in his voice, though his face was too close for her to see his expression.

A sudden flash of recognition hit her, and she found herself smirking in turn. "Of course I know your name, Mister Malfoy."


	28. Something New — SupportGroupAU

_[summary] — Winky &Dobby [SupportGroup!AU] The large door stood ajar, which was just as well because Winky wasn't quite tall enough to reach the handle. She could have used magic, she supposed, but when she was as upset as she was it had a tendency to … misbehave. _

**A/N —** **Once again, thank you to Raven and Beks for looking this over :)**

[1600]

* * *

The large door stood ajar, which was just as well because Winky wasn't quite tall enough to reach the handle. She could have used magic, she supposed, but when she was as upset as she was, it had a tendency to … _misbehave_.

There was a small gathering of elves inside — maybe ten or twelve, all forming an arc around one house-elf who was standing atop a wooden table, pacing its length and speaking words that had no business being said aloud.

"It is time," she arrived in time to hear him say, "we is is taking control of our lives!" There was a loud cheer from one of the gathered elves, though the rest remained silent. She thought they might be just as reluctant to be here as she herself was, but there was nowhere else to go. No one else would willingly take in a disgraced house-elf. "We is not needing master or mistress! We is our own masters! We is our own mistresses!" He waited a beat — possibly hoping for a slightly better reaction than the loud applause from the one house-elf — before taking a bow so deep his nose almost brushed against the tabletop and hopping to the floor.

He went straight to the only elf who had verbally supported him, removing the bottle from the creature's hand and leading him to a seat. Winky looked away quickly, before he could see her watching them, and turned her attention to the other elves in the room. They were mostly male, she noticed with slight dismay, but there was one other female elf that Winky headed straight for.

"Hello," the elf said, smiling thinly at Winky. None of the elves looked particularly happy — well, apart from the ring-leader and the elf with the bottle — so she thought nothing of it. The elf bowed. "Teeny," she said. "at your service."

Winky wasn't used to being greeted in such a way — every time she'd come into contact with another elf outside of the family, she hadn't been permitted to speak — and so she followed Teeny's example and responded in kind: "Winky," she said, her bow not quite as deep or elegant, "at yours."

The elf stifled a high-pitched giggle into a wrinkled and worn hand. Winky suspected hard work rather than simply age was down to her appearance. "Winky mustn't pay too much attention to Dobby," she said, sobering slightly. "Dobby talks big." She lowered her voice to a whisper, and said: "Dobby _chose_ to leave his masters, they say." Winky didn't ask who was saying such things; looking around the room, seeing the elves all gathered into various small groups and whispering in dark corners, Winky suspected she had a very good idea.

Winky took a deep breath, steeling herself, and said: "Are you … _free_?" She hated the way the word felt on her tongue; hated the way it reverberated in her head — _free, free, free_ — the repetition feeling more like a prison than her servitude ever had.

Teeny nodded, a slightly wistful smile twisting up the corners of her large mouth. "Teeny's master was very old, you see," she said. "And Teeny's master did not wake up."

Winky wondered about Teeny's master's children, and said as much to the other elf.

"They not wanting elf, Winky," Teeny said. "They more _civilised_." Winky cringed. She'd heard talk of the elves abandoned by their masters' or mistresses' children; set free in the name of equal rights, only to find themselves without work, shelter, or food. Of once-proud elves who could boast a linage with the same family going back tens of generations suddenly finding themselves on the outskirts of society. It was _barbaric_. "And what of Winky," the elf asked, "if you is not minding me asking."

"Winky's master is not dead," she said slowly. "Young master is gone," she added, "but master is very much alive." Winky paused, wondering if she should continue, but the other elf had shared. "Master — Master _freed_ W-winky," she hiccoughed, sniffing loudly. "Winky was a good elf."

Teeny gripped her arm tightly, waiting until Winky made eye contact with her before speaking. "Winky seems like a good elf," she said. "Winky is dedicated and loyal, and Winky did not deserve to be freed." Winky nods vigorously.

"Winky was _very_ loyal," she confirmed. "Winky would _never_ be doing anything to get herself freed."

Teeny nodded, wrapping a thin arm around Winky's shoulders. "We _all_ loyal," she said. "Even Torpy," she added, gesturing to the elf Winky had noticed before; he was out of the seat Dobby had tried to help him into, hanging off the other elf and waving his arms about in a way that was far from anything a well-behaved house-elf would be doing in company. "Torpy just … Torpy didn't take to freedom," Teeny said sadly, watching the elf sadly as he stumbled. "Torpy didn't have friends like Teeny." She turned to Winky then, giving her a somewhat reassuring smile, which Winky hesitantly returned.

Winky had never had friends before.

...oOo...

Teeny had told Winky they met on the second Thursday of every month, and Winky hadn't wanted to be late. She wasn't the only one, it turned out, as she pushed open the heavy door on the Wednesday evening. She recognised Torpy instantly, though she was hesitant to speak with him, so she made her way to the corner furthest from him.

There was another elf already there, hidden in the shadows, but by the time she saw him it was too late to pretend she'd been heading somewhere else. And Winky knew better than to turn and walk away once he'd seen where she was headed; Winky was not rude.

"Hello," he said. He looked very young, she thought.

"I is Winky," she said, pulling at her pillowcase and descending into something that could loosely be described as a curtsey.

"Norby," he said, not standing. He signalled to the man behind the bar — a middle-aged human who seemed far too used to house-elves giving him orders — who approached quickly, a bottle and two dirty glasses in hand. He set them on the table in front of Norby, who wordlessly handed the man a few coins.

Once the man left, Norby tipped the bottle, pouring the liquid into the first half-pint glass and sliding it across the table to her. Winky picked up the glass, giving it a hesitant sniff. It smelt sweet, and a little … soapy? She turned her confused frown to Norby.

"It's butterbeer," he said, pouring some into his own glass. "Drink up." He downed his own glass quickly; Winky did the same, wondering at his amused smirk. "The first time Winky's tried this?" he asked. She nodded; her cheeks felt a little flushed, though whether that was from embarrassment or the warmth the drink had caused to spread through her body, she couldn't tell. He laughed again. "Winky should slow down."

Winky grinned, a dazed smile that felt strange on her face, but she was too content to be overly bothered. "Winky would like another." He laughed again, but waved the bartender over.

When Winky had her second drink, Norby said: "Winky should be careful." Winky frowned. "Torby was like Winky," he clarified. Winky glanced over at the other elf as she took a sip of her drink; he was slumped over his table, his glass tipped over beside him and spilling what little of his drink that remained.

"Winky is not like Torby," she said indignantly. "Winky is of the House of — Winky is dignified," she quickly amended. She took another sip of her drink, mouth downturned. Already, her head was beginning to feel a little fuzzy, dulling the pain she'd been feeling since she'd been freed.

.oOo.

The other elves gradually filled in, and she recognised a lot of faces from last week arriving hours before they were scheduled to meet. Norby had told her there wasn't much else for them to do; that the old families wouldn't accept a disgraced elf — though she had known this already — and that the newer names wanted to do things for themselves. Even the younger generations of the old families had the same attitude.

Winky accepted the bottle of butterbeer from the bartender, leaving Norby to pay again. He frowned, but handed the coins over nonetheless. She took a deep swig.

"Winky!" Teeny called, waving from across the room. Winky stumbled over. Her head was pleasantly buzzing, distracting her from the thoughts that had plagued her for over a month now. "Winky, meet Beeny," she said proudly, though there was a slight sadness to her face. Winky supposed they all looked a little downtrodden now, though. "Beeny is Teeny's sister," she continued, standing tall. "Beeny is —" she stuttered, lowering her voice "— Beeny was working for Misters and Mistress Crabbe."

Winky bowed deeply; she would have fallen had Teeny not grabbed her in her surprisingly strong arms. "Wi-nky," she hiccoughed, "is a free elf," she said loudly, raising her bottle and taking a deep swig. She had caught Dobby's attention.

"Winky?" he asked, walking over. "Is Winky new?"

"Winky was here last month," she said, chin raised high and a stubborn set to her mouth; she wasn't fully aware of the words she was saying, but everything around her felt muted, distant, and so she couldn't bring herself to care. "Because Winky is homeless and jobless and _free_."

* * *

 **A/N** — Written for houses with the theme escape (in which alcohol was used as the escape) and the prompt house-elves. I would also like to clarify that Winky is not an alcoholic in this story; this is her first time getting drunk, and that does not mean she has a problem. The other elves are just warning her (or worried about) what could happen.


	29. Day One — PrisonAU

_[summary] — Percy/Oliver (mostly platonic) [Prison!AU] He had thought he'd managed to escape the expectations of his family, to escape this inevitable outcome, but apparently not._

 **A/N** — Thank you, Carmen, for beta'ing :)

[1200]

* * *

A guard directed Percy through the security checks, but his mind was elsewhere. He had thought he'd managed to escape the expectations of his family, to escape this inevitable outcome, but apparently not. He'd tried all he could to distance himself from them; got a job at the Ministry, worked his way up through the ranks quickly, and yet still he found himself here.

The guard gestured again, impatiently this time, and Percy sighed, picking up the bedroll assigned to him. The orange jumpsuit he'd need to change into reminded him of just how badly he'd failed.

"Hi," the man in front of him said, glancing over his shoulder to throw a grin in Percy's direction. 'How's it going?"

"Great," Percy drawled, aiming for as much sarcasm as he could possibly inflict in the single word.

The man just laughed in response. From anyone else, it might have sounded mocking, but he seemed genuinely entertained. _Probably insane,_ Percy decided firmly. No one could be that happy to be here.

"Oliver, by the way," he said with another grin. He held out his hand as if to shake, but dropped it to his side at the short, "no touching," from one of the guards. Oliver gave a one-shouldered shrug as if in apology.

Percy hesitated for a moment, then, somewhat reluctantly, said: "Percy." If nothing else, his family had instilled in him decent manners — his mother's doing, of course, and often ignored, but Percy did like to at least pretend he'd been raised to be civil.

"What're you in for?" Oliver asked. Were people supposed to ask that? Percy had always thought there might be some secrecy to it; at least, he'd hoped he could keep that information to himself for a little while. When the pause had carried on for a little too long, Oliver added: "Drugs."

"No," Percy snapped, "I would _never_ -"

"Uh …" Oliver scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, "I meant me. 's what I'm in for."

Percy could feel his face flushing a deep red, the heat spreading from his ears to his chest. "Oh," he muttered. Snippets of thought ran through his head – maybe that's why he was so happy? maybe he didn't have anywhere else to go? maybe everyone he knew was already inside? maybe – before he realised that a lot of those thoughts could apply to himself, too. And besides, it was rude. His mother had raised him better than that. He deliberately ignored the _no she didn't_ that ran through his mind.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," Oliver said eventually, adding another one-shouldered shrug.

"Theft," Percy said. Not quite the whole truth, but it was what it boiled down to. Skimming money from the top of Ministry funding to add to his meagre savings and go towards his rent … Percy shook his head; if he'd known he was going to get caught, he'd have taken more.

"Really?" Oliver asked. "You don't seem the type." Percy looked the other man up and down, noting his well kept hair and nails, clear skin and white teeth - "Yeah, okay," Oliver said with a brilliant smile, "I get your point."

They spent the rest of the walk down blank corridors, all with the same impersonal feel, in a comfortable silence. Or, as comfortable a silence as their current situation could afford.

One of the guards pulled out a large ring of keys. Not large as in the old-fashioned prison keys – the kind Percy wouldn't even admit to himself that he'd secretly wanted to see – no, Puddlemere Penitentiary was far too modern for that.

Not modern enough to have any sort of clear system, Percy noted, as the guard had to root through the masses of keys – all looking uncomfortably similar to regular house-keys – until he found the right one and fitted it into the lock.

"You're in here," he said, "until you're assigned a permanent bed." Percy didn't particularly like the sound of that, but Oliver grinned and said a quick, "Thanks," as he walked past the guards and into the small room.

There were four bunk beds crammed in, seemingly uncaring for any need of personal space. Percy suspected that had gone out the window as soon as he'd entered the building. Five of the beds were already made; Percy thought that probably meant they were expected to choose one of the three that remained.

"I call top," Oliver said with a wink – unnecessary, in Percy's opinion – and threw his bed roll onto the only free upper bunk. With a sigh, Percy decided he might as well take the bed underneath. _The evil you know,_ he thought; it definitely wasn't because he found Oliver's smile a little comforting, that his apparent need for near-constant chatter might be the only thing available to distract Percy in the coming hours, days, weeks -

"Have you been here before?" Percy asked, seeing the way Oliver made his bed with practiced ease. He wondered if perhaps that wasn't something he should have been asking, but couldn't bring himself to care overly much.

"Yep," Oliver said with a grin. "Repeat offender, me." Then he shrugged. "Better than juvi. At least here people've done shit worth being proud of." Percy didn't bother mentioning that people shouldn't really be proud to commit crimes; look where he'd ended up, after all. "This your first time?" he asked with a leer. Percy's expression must have showed how unimpressed he was at that, because he was quick to add: "Only joking." He raised his hands in the air. "I promise to leave you entirely unmolested, unless you so desire to be … molested."

"I do not."

"Right, well," Oliver said, ever-present grin still firmly in place, "glad we got that sorted then."

"Quite," Percy muttered.

He waited until Oliver was done before he began attempting to make his own bed; it gave him more room to fumble with the sheets.

"Have you never made a bed before?" Oliver asked incredulously after the third time Percy banged his head against the top bunk and stood with muffled curses.

"Not bunk beds," he snapped. "It's different."

Oliver scoffed. "Doesn't explain the mess that is your base sheet." Percy didn't want to say that was because he was used to fitted sheets – they may require a little more tugging, but it was so much easier when you could see what went where – only gave Oliver his best impression of his mother's glare. He had nothing on Molly Weasley, of course, but he did manage to elicit a laugh from Oliver.

"Alright, move aside," Oliver said, accompanying his words with shooing gestures. "But pay attention! I'm not doing this for you again."

"I can do it," Percy huffed, folding his arms across his chest petulantly. He was still a little out of breath from his attempt at wrestling with the sheets, indicating that he most likely could _not_ do it himself, but he wasn't willing to admit that.

At least, Percy thought, he'd managed to make a sort-of friend on his first day. Maybe this wouldn't be entirely terrible.


	30. A New Beginning — Haunted HouseAU

_[summary] — Cedric &Myrtle [Haunted House!AU] "I have to make sure: you are aware of the … incidents?" she asks carefully. "You mean the deaths?" Cedric blurts out. "The murders and suicides and accidents?"_

 **A/N** — It should be noted that Cedric's parents have absolutely no idea what to do for the majority of situations they are presented with in this story. They are very much making things up as they go along. Just in case that isn't obvious :P

And a massive thank you to Ash and Jenny for beta'ing this mess :D

(And Jenny — Theroguehuntress — gets full credit for that last line)

[4800]

* * *

"Hello," a woman says, stepping forward. Cedric startles slightly, but relaxes when he realises it's his dad she's addressing. "My name's Bellatrix." She holds out her hand, and Cedric's dad shakes it.

"Yes, we talked on the phone, didn't we?" he asks. "You're the estate agent?"

She smiles, though the twist of her mouth is a little too harsh, a little too cold, to be entirely genuine. Cedric supposes she talks to clients nearly every hour of the day; that the effort of pretending to be happy for them must be a little much. "Yes, that's me." She pulls a set of keys from her pocket. "I must admit, I was a little surprised you wanted to buy the house without seeing it."

His dad gives a self-depreciating laugh that makes Cedric wince. "We're a little … strapped for cash," he says. "This place was cheap."

Bellatrix nods in understanding. "I have to make sure: you are aware of the … _incidents_?" she asks carefully.

"You mean the deaths?" Cedric blurts out. "The murders and suicides and _accidents_?"

"Cedric!" his mum yells, slamming the car door and turning the full force of her glare on her son.

"Yes," Bellatrix says, still talking to his father. "The deaths."

"Yes, we, ah —" his dad stutters.

"We know," his mum says, still clearly annoyed, but she softens her voice before continuing. "But that's the only way we could afford a place like this. We don't …"

"No, I understand," Bellatrix says. "It's unfortunate, but yes, it does bring prices down." She opens the door. "Shall we?" Cedric is left wondering why _now_ is the time her smile seems most genuine, while his parents follow her inside.

Briefly, he wonders if he's expected to empty the car, but he pushes the thought from his mind. If that's what they wanted, his mum would have told him at least three times by now. He doesn't particularly want to carry boxes, anyway.

He wanders off down the street, instead.

There's a lot of houses, but the street itself is pretty empty. Cedric assumes everyone must be at work.

A curtain flutters in a window — someone checking up on the new neighbours, presumably — but everything else is still. He makes it to the end of the street without seeing a single person, animal, or even anything to disrupt the stereotypical vision of an ideal neighbourhood.

All gardens were meticulously mown, not a single tree cut into the pavement, and windows were polished to gleaming perfection. The seemingly flawless neighbourhood did more to scare him than the history of his new house.

"Hi." Cedric jumps, a startled noise escaping his mouth before he registers the giggling little girl.

"Hi," Cedric says slowly, trying to calm his erratic heart beat. _Where had she come from?_

"I'm Ginny," she says, grinning wide enough to show off all her teeth. "I live over there." She pointed behind her, to a strange alley between two of the perfect houses. At the end, he can see an old house with peeling paint; it seems to get wonkier the closer to the top floor it gets, and Cedric is left wondering how it's still standing.

"Really?" he asks, a little doubtful.

"Yep." She grins again. "D'you wanna meet my brothers? They're really annoying."

"Uh ... no, thanks."

She nods, her expression turning serious. "I wouldn't, either."

"Right, well," Cedric says, swallowing thickly, "I have to get home."

"You live _there_?" she asks; Cedric's never seen anyone look so shocked. She's backing away slowly, shaking her head. "That's the bad house."

He frowns, looking over; it looks exactly like every other house on the street. Yes, the last occupants had died — murder-suicide, according to the news reports his mother had been reading extensively when she thought Cedric couldn't see — but that didn't mean the _house_ was bad. When he turns back to tell her as much, she's gone.

Cedric shrugs, and makes his way back.

His parents are outside when he returns; his mum's glare is definitely annoyed.

"Where were you?" she snaps.

"I was just walking down the street," he says, looking to his dad for help. "I met one of the neighbours."

"Oh?" Bellatrix asks, looking at him with a little too much focus. "Which one?"

"Uh …" Cedric thinks for a moment; he's pretty sure she told him her name, but he can't quite remember it, "a little girl." His mum gives him a disapproving look. "She lives in that weird house. The one that's practically falling down."

"Oh, that's not really this street," Bellatrix says. "That alleyway, it shouldn't be there. It used to be a part of the driveway of one of the houses, but someone knocked through the fence at the end." She looks at his parents earnestly. "It doesn't affect the property values of this street."

His parents both mumble something in agreement; secretly, Cedric thinks they understand property values about as much as he does.

"Well, if that's all?" she asks. "We have another client to see, but not for a couple hours, so I can —"

"Oh, no," his mum says, never one for inconveniencing strangers — no, she saves that for her offspring, Cedric thinks bitterly. "I think we've asked everything we needed to."

"Great," Bellatrix says with what Cedric is now certain is false cheer. "I just need you to sign this," she pulls a clipboard and pen from her bag, handing them to Cedric's dad, "to say I've gone through all the checks, and you agree with everything we discussed."

"Yes, of course," his dad says, signing the paper and handing it to his mum.

"Well," Bellatrix says one they're done, "if you need anything, you've got my number." She shakes both his parents hands. "If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call."

And, with that, she's climbing into her car; a sleek black model that looks more expensive than Cedric would have thought an estate agent could afford. But then, Cedric didn't know how much estate agents made.

.oOo.

Standing in his new room, surrounded by all his possessions packed away in boxes, Cedric thinks he might hate his parents. He knows it's not their fault they lost everything — though the details of which they'd done their best to hide from him — but he still blames them. He doesn't want to be here; he'd had friends, a girlfriend. He'd lived in his old house for his entire life.

Sighing, he opens the first box; his mother had labelled them before he'd started packing, so this one has _clothing_ printed in her neat handwriting, but he hadn't paid much attention to that when he'd been shoving everything wherever it would fit.

He looks down in annoyance, glaring at his old school books as if it's their fault he hadn't bothered to throw them away last year, when he'd moved up from middle school. Instead of taking the box downstairs and admitting to his parents he hadn't actually gone through all his stuff like he was supposed to, Cedric shoves it under his bed.

The next box is a little closer to what he wants; aside from the random mug — after a quick check, Cedric sees the beginning of mould growing inside, so that, too, makes its way under the bed — there's a couple xbox games and a lone book.

He considers opening another box, but instead walks onto the landing and leans over the banister, yelling: "Mum! Can I borrow your charger?"

"Where's yours?" his mum yells back.

"I can't find it!"

"Did you look?" She exits the kitchen wearing rubber gloves and an apron, with her hair tied back — _great_ , she'd probably make him help with cleaning now . The smell of the apple cider vinegar she likes to add to every cleaning product wafts out behind her, making his eyes water a little.

"Yeah."

She sighs, but she looks too tired to properly scold him. "You can borrow your dad's. My phone's charging."

"Thanks, Mum." Cedric grins, bounding down the stairs and ignoring his mum's yell of, "No running in the house!"

.oOo.

 _Howling winds tear through the room, sounding more like screams. Like hundreds of voices coming together, all saying the same thing but too out of sync to be able to discern their words._

 _Hands, gripping, pulling, clawing._

 _A figure materialises, features indistinguishable, looking more like mist in the vague shape of a person. Shaking, flickering in and out of view._

 _Surprisingly clear eyes staring, unblinking. A gash opens beneath the eyes, where a mouth should be, gaping. Where there should be lips, teeth, tongue, there is nothing; a black so dark it hurts to look at._

 _The wind picks up, inside now, whirling in visible lines through the room, picking up anything in its way. The figure remains unaffected._

 _The mouth twists up into a mockery of a grin, moving as if to form words, but the shapes are indistinct._

.oOo.

Cedric wakes up in a cold sweat, though his dream slips from his mind too fast for him to remember why his heart is pounding.

" _Cedric!"_ his mum yells, sounding irritated enough that Cedric assumes she'd been calling for a while. " _Breakfast!"_

Cedric groans, rolling out of bed and pulling on his shirt and jeans from the day before. His stumbling journey to the door ends abruptly in muffled swearing when he steps on something sharp. Pain shoots through his foot, and he only realises what caused it when he's about to step on it again.

Pottery shards.

He could've sworn he left that mug under the bed, but maybe he'd just put it to the side.

Hobbling into the bathroom and leaving the occasional spot of blood on the tan carpet of the landing, Cedric grabs some toilet roll and wraps it around his foot before limping down the stairs.

"What on _earth_ have you done?" his mum asks as soon as she sees him, setting three empty bowls on the table and ushering Cedric into a chair.

"Broke a mug," he mutters.

"And _what_ was a mug doing in your room?"

Cedric just shrugs, and asks: "Where's Dad?"

"We don't have any food," his mum says, searching through some boxes and pulling out an old first aid kit on only the second try.

Cedric knows better than to ask why he'd been called down for breakfast when there wasn't any food in the house. It had never ended well for him in the past.

His mum pulls some tweezers out and Cedric yanks back his foot. "It's fine, Mum."

"Let me at least check," she says, procuring her glasses from god only knew where and leaning uncomfortably close to Cedric's foot.

The front door slams shut.

"What's going on?" Cedric's dad asks.

"Where's the food?" is Cedric's mum's reply.

Cedric's dad frowns, holding up a pint of semi-skimmed milk. "I thought this was all you wanted?"

His mum looks horrified — more so than when she'd first seen the cut on the bottom of his foot, Cedric thinks a little sulkily — but at least she's put the tweezers down.

After a moment of stony glaring, his mum sighs. "Well, I think we still have some cereal somewhere," she says.

By that, it turns out, she means they have a box of Special K that's been open long enough to taste like cardboard as soon as milk is added, that she'd already put away in one of the kitchen cabinets.

.oOo.

Cedric's mum had forced him to spend the entire day helping to unpack — his dad had given him a shrug in apology (though he hadn't seemed overly sorry) and left for work soon after breakfast — so Cedric was exhausted by the time dinner rolled around.

And he still hasn't managed to find his xbox.

They order take-out again; Dominos this time, so Cedric's waiting by the door because he's been craving garlic bread for _weeks_ now.

The doorbell rings; it's the first time they've heard it.

It's … unusual, to say the least. There's no set tune, but it's high and grating and sets his heart racing, though he isn't sure why.

The door sticks when he tries to open it, the handle refusing to turn.

"Mum!" he calls. "Did you lock the door?"

"No," she says as she leaves the kitchen, gracing him with _the look_. When she turns the handle and the door opens instantly, _the look_ intensifies.

.oOo.

 _The figure is gone._

 _Relief is only momentary; the room is empty, but it_ feels _full, as if a thousand eyes lurk in the shadows to watch in secret._

 _They are waiting._

.oOo.

His mum grabs his foot, unwrapping the bandage and peeling off the absorbent pad with little attempt at decent bedside manner. She makes a disapproving cluck of her tongue. "Honestly, Cedric," she says, "what _have_ you been doing?"

"Nothing!" he defends himself quickly. And then, much more hesitantly, adds: "Why?"

"I don't see how it could've —" she pauses, visibly thinking. "Did you wash it before bed?"

"Why?" Cedric repeats.

"To _clean_ it!" She's rummaging through the first aid kit as she speaks, pulling out the chalky spray that Cedric hates. Apparently, it's supposed to help with healing cuts. Pain relief or something. "Didn't you wash it in the shower?" She looks up when he doesn't reply, exclaiming "Cedric!" at his blank look.

He gets the feeling she's about to start in on her usual rant — variations of " _We did not raise you like this!"_ and " _Why is this how you thank us for all we've done?"_ — so Cedric asks: "Can I go out today?"

"And do what?" she asks. "With who? We still have a lot of unpacking to do."

Cedric shrugs. "I just wanted to look around."

"With who?" his mum repeats.

"No one," Cedric snaps, suddenly feeling anger clawing at his chest. "I have no friends. You made me leave them all, remember?"

"You —" His mum opens and closes her mouth for a few seconds, looking a little lost. "As long as you stay on the street. And don't stay out long." Cedric hisses in a sharp breath as she sprays the small cannister on his foot. It turns to liquid as it hits his skin, fizzing until it turns a chalky white that he knows from experience will flake off as soon as he touches it.

Secretly, he thinks his mum just sprays too much of it.

"So I can go now?" he asks, hoping she'll take his calmer tone as the apology he doesn't want to utter.

"Sure," she says.

.oOo.

The street's a little less empty now than it had been two days before.

The little girl's out again, but this time she's with two slightly older boys. He assumes their her older brothers.

Upon seeing him, the oldest of her brothers steps forward, asking: "Who're you?"

The girl glares. "I _told_ you! I met him the other day."

"Shut up, Ginny," the younger of the two boys says, earning him a slap on the arm from his sister and a, "You shut up!" in return.

"Both of you shut up!" the older boy snaps. Then, to Cedric, he asks: "You moved into the house?"

Ginny nods seriously. "He lives in the bad house."

"Uh …" Cedric stammers, "I just moved in, yeah." He gestures in the vague direction of his house, though it looks exactly the same as the houses on either side. "My name's Cedric."

"I'm Fred," the boy says, "'n this is Ronnikins." He pushes the younger boy forward, who shoots his brother a glare.

"He's _George,_ " the boy says. "And my name's _Ron_."

"Right," Cedric says. "Okay. Well … it's nice to meet you." It sounds a little more like a question than he thinks it should, but it's something his parents say a lot. They all stare at him expectantly. "Why's my house bad?" he blurts out for want of anything else to say when the silence becomes a little too creepy.

"It's the bad house," Ginny repeats. "Bad things happen there."

"People die," Fred or George says — Cedric hasn't decided which brother he believes yet.

"It's haunted," Ron adds. Fred. He believes the boy's name's Fred. Ron's either a liar or insane.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Cedric says as reasonably as he can manage. It probably sounds really patronising, but … _there's no such thing as ghosts!_

"Are too!" Ginny says.

"I've never seen any."

"That's 'cause they're all in your house," Ron mutters petulantly.

"They're not," Cedric says, "because ghosts don't exist."

With a muttered, "Goodbye", Cedric turns to leave. His mum had told him not to stay out long, and his foot was starting to hurt; it had nothing to do with the fact that he thought he might lose this argument. He'll wait until he starts school to try and make friends.

"Ron! Ginny!" a woman's voice yells as he's halfway down the street. "George! Inside!"

.oOo.

"Are ghosts real?" Cedric asks.

His mum scowls and says, "Is this really appropriate conversation for the dinner table?" at the same time as his dad says, "That really depends on what you mean by ghosts."

So, Cedric decides to ignore his mum and answers his dad: "Like … dead people. Coming back." He pauses, then adds: "As ghosts."

His dad takes a moment to think about it, which Cedric appreciates. Most adults — his mum included — tend to brush off questions that are difficult to answer. "Well … people have souls, or spirits," his dad says slowly. "So … I suppose it's reasonable to assume they might leave a … _presence_ , an imprint, on the world."

So, basically, he doesn't know. But at least he'd tried to answer. Cedric nods anyway, and says, "Thanks, Dad," as he tucks into his food and lets the subject drop, much to his mum's relief.

.oOo.

 _The figure is closer now, the flickering faster, and exuding anger._

 _It's mouth opens in wordless, soundless, screams._

 _A dull thud, something scrapes across the floor — something is_ dragged _across the floor, the_ ratatattat _of something sharp on the wooden floor._

 _The vague shape of a hand, fingers extending and bending at unnatural angles, creeps over the edge of the bed._

 _Fingers flutter over an ankle, somehow both cold and_ burning _hot._

 _Sharp nails_ dig _into parted flesh —_

.oOo.

Cedric awakes with a _scream_ , pain radiating from the sole of his foot and shooting all the way up his calf, stopping just below his knee. He doesn't know when he started crying, but tears and snot are streaming down his face, his eyes already swollen.

He hears the pounding of feet on the landing, something slamming into his door.

"Cedric!" his mum yells. "Cedric, what is it? Open the door!"

"Cedric, you need to move," his dad adds. Cedric doesn't understand; he's in his bed. But the pain is all he can think of, so much so that he can't even try to form words.

Through the haze his mind has become, he vaguely registers a muffled conversation between his parents, and someone walking away with hurried steps.

The next thing he notices, the door is falling to the floor, hinges removed.

"Cedric, what happened?" his mum asks, running over. If he weren't feeling so bad, Cedric might have noticed that he'd never seen either of his parents look so terrified.

Something cold and wet is wrapped around his leg, and fingers card through his hair. He flinches away from the tough, but the fingers are gentle and it's nothing like the prying, clawing grip of the night before. He leans into the hand.

 _Wet_ drips down his calf, dampening the sheets beneath him. Though that could partially be sweat; Cedric can't tell.

Eventually, the pain dulls down enough for him to blink his eyes back into focus.

His parents look worried as they mutter quiet words to each other.

— hospital?" his mum finishes.

His dad shakes his head, saying: "It's going down … whatever it is. We can probably just book a doctor's appointment." His dad pauses, and then adds: "I don't think it's hurting him so much now."

Cedric finds himself drifting off into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

.oOo.

"Oh, you're awake," his mum says, after she's finished shaking him to ensure that he _was_ awake. Instead of replying, Cedric simply groans. "The girl from down the street came for a visit," his mum continues, "but she didn't want to come upstairs." She pauses. "Wouldn't come inside at all, actually."

"Ginny?" he croaks. "Why was she here?"

"No, not Ginny. Unless that was her friend," his mum says. "Her name was Luna." She sets something down on his bedside table. "She asked me to give you this, and said another girl would be visiting later."

Cedric glances over, curiosity piqued, and sees a single daisy floating in what looks like a miniature fishbowl half-filled with water.

His mum sees him looking, and says, "She brought it 'round like that. Didn't want me to take it out." His mum frowns slightly. "She didn't seem too bothered that it'll probably die soon."

"Who's coming later?" Cedric asks.

"Oh, um … Luna said her name was … Myrtle, I think? Though she said she'd be around tonight, which seems a bit late, but —"

Cedric tunes her out.

.oOo.

 _The figure prowls closer. Tonight, it seems excited._

 _There is no clawing or scratching, no wordless screams, and the sense of fear it causes is muted._

 _It's waiting._

.oOo.

"No, back to bed!" Cedric's mum says as soon as she sees him.

She's ushering him back into his room before he can protest, and it's only when she's tucking his duvet around him that he thinks to say: "But, Mum, I'm hungry."

"I'll bring you up some food."

Cedric would protest, but he's not normally allowed food in his room.

"Can I go see Luna later?" he asks. He doesn't want to tell his mum he has no idea who she is — that would be the fastest way to never find out — but he has a horrible feeling he knows who Myrtle might be, and he's sure Luna would be able to shed some light on that.

"No, honey," she says. "I'm sorry, not today." He can't stop the disappointment from showing on his face. "When your leg's healed up."

"Okay," he mutters dejectedly.

"We'll see what your doctor says," she concedes with a sympathetic smile. "Now, what did you want for breakfast?"

Cedric thinks for a moment. "Pancakes."

He gets toast. Though the generous spread of Nutella helps to make up for it — only hindered because he now knows she's hiding Nutella somewhere in the house.

.oOo.

It's late afternoon, and he's spent the majority of the day falling in and out of a light doze, before he finally feels brave enough to take a look at his leg.

Lifting the duvet slowly, he tilts his head down hesitantly and —

He lets out a sound which can only be described as a _shriek_ and quickly pulls the covers back over, wincing as it tugs at his skin.

There are … _veins_ covering his legs, black lines like spiderwebs, fanning out from underneath his foot. They get thinner the further up his leg they go, and are completely gone just below his knee, but they're _there_ and they shouldn't be.

"Mu-um!" he yells, though his voice is a lot squeakier then he had intended.

She runs in fast enough that he thinks she must have been waiting for him to call her. One look at his face — which he knows must be looking borderline hysterical, if the way he's feeling is anything to go by — and she relaxes.

"I know, sweetie," she says. "We've booked a doctor's appointment. Everything's going to be okay."

Cedric nods, leaning back against the mound of pillows propping him up, and his mother turns to leave.

"Try to rest some more."

"Yeah, okay," he says. She pulls the door to behind her — it would be too much to ask her to actually close it properly — and he waits a few minutes after he hears her head down stairs before throwing the duvet off again.

He stumbles to his feet, feeling all the blood rush to his head, and having to pause and overcome the sudden wave of dizziness before he can limp to the window.

He pulls the latch open, wincing at the noise it makes — logically, he knows his mum won't be able to hear it, but he still waits a moment before throwing his leg over.

The landing is more painful than he'd anticipated. He lands on the grass, sure enough, but his legs give out beneath him, and the cuts on the sole of his foot send shooting pains all the way up to his thigh.

He's just struggling back to his feet when a soft voice asks: "Are you okay?"

There's a girl — about Ginny's age, he thinks, or possibly a bit younger — staring at him with wide, clear eyes. Her face is oddly blank, but somehow still very attentive; like she's taking in a lot more than most people would.

"I'm fine," he says, finally gaining his footing and turning to face her properly.

"Okay," she says. "It's just that you fell pretty far."

"I meant to do that."

"Oh." She stands watching him for a while, not offering anything more to the conversation.

"Are you Luna?" Her grin is so wide, Cedric can see all her teeth; on anyone else, it would look vaguely predatory, he thinks, but on her it just looks … ecstatically happy.

"Yes," she says, as if her expression hadn't been confirmation enough. "I was waiting for you."

"You knew I'd be here?" he asks.

There's a pause in which Luna doesn't look uncertain so much as concerned. "You live here."

"Well, yes, I — yes,' he stutters. "You came here yesterday," he says eventually.

"Yes."

"Er … _why_?"

"To see you," she says. "You were hurt."

"But … how'd you know that?"

"Myrtle told me," she says as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And Myrtle is …"

"You've met Myrtle," Luna says. "She likes you."

" _Cedric_!" his mum yells. Cedric turns slowly to see her standing in the front doorway, bin bag in one hand, and looking absolutely furious. "I told you to rest!"

"Sorry, Mum," Cedric mutters, eyes downcast, and turns, the pain travelling further up, past his hip and crossing over to the other side of his body. Maybe this _had_ been a bad idea.

Just before he limps back inside, Luna says brightly: "It was lovely to meet you. Myrtle says you're going to be staying for a long time."

.oOo.

"Well, you're definitely grounded," Cedric's mum says in a deceptively calm tone. "What were you _thinking_?" She angrily tucks the duvet around him. "Look at you, you're shaking!" She pauses, then repeats, quieter: "You're shaking."

"Mum —"

Her expression clouds over with worry. "I'll be right back," she says.

.oOo.

 _The figure leans over the bed, inches away. And grins. Its mouth stretching to unnatural proportions, almost cutting the vague shape of a face in half._

 _Twisting into something that's almost a grin, the figure speaks in a voice that's surprisingly high-pitched — surprisingly childish and innocent — and says: "We've been waiting a long time for you to join us."_

...oOo…

Bellatrix steps from the car. She raises her tone a few octaves higher, her voice sounding sickly sweet to her own ears, and says: "Hello." She holds out a hand, aiming for professional reassurance. "You must be Mrs. Creevey."

"Yes, I — yes," the woman stutters, but gives Bellatrix a genuinely warm smile. Good. This was always easier when they were comfortable.

"I'm glad you're still interested in the house," she says, "especially after … after what just happened." She tries to look sorrowful, though she's not quite sure if she achieves it. She'd made _a lot_ of money from the Diggorys, after all.

"Well, it's not like we could turn down such a cheap price," Mrs. Creevey says with a self-depreciating laugh. Bellatrix knew her target audience; if you lowered the price of a house enough, the desperate wouldn't even hesitate at the circumstances.

"If you don't mind me asking," Mrs. Creevey says, "what happened to the family that lived here? I know they died, but ..."

"The Diggorys, they … their son was ill," she lies. "And when he died, the parents … well, it was all very unfortunate, really." She smiles. "But don't worry … I'm sure you'll be perfectly fine."


End file.
